


On Loving A Wounded Boy

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Fluff, Flashbacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence in Later Chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: April 2009Ben Perkins and Miranda Desoto reunite after the British troops have been pulled from Basra. Together they try to navigate love, life and loss after five long years apart.
Relationships: Miranda/Ben Perkins, Teresa Moreno/Richard Sharpe
Comments: 30
Kudos: 5





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainKiran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainKiran/gifts).



> This is a sequel to Finding Home Again, also on AO3 under the same pseudonym. It would help a lot if you read that one first!

The 09:04 train from Heathrow Terminal 4 is late.

Normally Miranda would not mind so much, but it’s April and she wants nothing more than to be back in her flat with Ben. She wants to be curled up on the sofa in the living room with his head in her lap, watching him sleep and soaking up the late spring sun, not caring that she’s missing an important lecture on final exam essay writing.

She would miss all the lectures in the world if it meant being able to see him again, to hold him and drink him in, body and blood and heart and soul together, after five long years apart.

_Ben._

His name is a soft, round taste in her mouth as she digs out her phone and checks her messages. Around her the platform is filling, children ignoring their mothers’ instructions to stay close, railway staff checking tickets and answering questions. A group of businessmen in sharply pressed suits clutching take away cups of coffee in one hand and leather briefcases in the other are huddled together, glancing anxiously at the platform arrivals board, a group of teenage boys discussing last night’s football.

In her coat pocket her phone buzzes, the text from Antonia, who from her tone, is just as excited as she is for their reunion.

**A: We’ve just got home from the airport. Hope all’s OK with you? Text me when he gets there! Mum, Dad and everyone send their love. Antonia xxx**

Miranda cannot begrudge the small smile from playing on her lips at the sight of the text. She hadn’t been able to make the airport that morning, but Antonia, Teresa and Ben had all assured her that everything was fine, more than fine and they’d be together soon enough.

A train on its’ way north screeches through the station, not stopping, the blur of unknown faces and unknown lives gone in a flash.

She scrolls back through her messages to the last text that he’d sent her, before they’d boarded the troop transports from Basra. It’s a selfie, Ben grinning madly, with Harris, Harper, Hagman and Sharpe grinning over his shoulders. Underneath the Iraqi tan and the grin that she loves so much he’d looked exhausted, the mischievous light that she remembers in his eyes dimmed to a flicker and yet striving so hard to be bright, and all she wants is for him to be in her arms and home and safe.

**B: I’ll be on the 09:04 from Heathrow, all being well. Exhausted doesn’t cover it, but bloody happy to be coming back. To be with you. Can’t wait to see you,** **mi niña querida. Ben xxx**

_Mi niña querida._

_My darling girl._

_it had been one of the first Spanish phrases he’d remembered from his schooldays when they had first begun to see each other, three weeks into the second year of his doomed university career. He’d say it over and over again to tease her, until she had said yes._

_He’d whisper it to her, the words delicate in the soft night air as they walked home from the SU Bar, lost in a leant over kiss as she passed him cooking in the kitchen of her flat, caressed around her neck like a necklace of soft, sweet love._

_Later, when he joined the Royal Green Jackets, he’d address his letters to her thus, the words touched with love and hope and memory of those long, summer evenings, always making her smile. She keeps them bundled together and tied with brown string, sprigs of lavender from next door’s window box pressed between the pages, in the top drawer of her desk._

‘The next train to arrive at Platform 3 will be the delayed 09:04 from Heathrow.’

The announcement over the station’s intercom jerks her out of her reverie and without a moment to understand why, she is being buffeted along the platform towards the train.

The nerves come before she can stop them. She’s felt them prickling at the back of her neck ever since the official announcement had been made- over a month ago- and tried to hold them back as they tug at her bun as she plaited it up in the morning, pull sweat down onto the back of her hands, explode in a jittering, unexplainable pain deep in the pit of her stomach.

Now they tighten in her throat like a pair of hands squeezing themselves around her neck and she can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe.

She can’t-

Part of her, the part that’s fighting off those hands, wants to walk away.

Wants to turn on her heel and walk out of the station. Wants to walk back up the hill towards the cathedral, unlock the door to her building, crawl up the stairs, fumble with her keys until the stiff lock on her front door finally cooperates and collapse into the comfortable familiarity of her living room. And never know how much she has failed herself.

Failed him. 

_She can’t do that._

_Can she?_

But before she has a chance to act, to be decisive and put an end to all these confusing questions, she sees him.

She sees him before he sees her.

He’s at the carriage door, pressed between a dark middle-aged man with a receding hairline in a sharp, Saville Row suit and a Charles Tyrwhitt shirt and a harassed mother steering a pushchair in one hand and trying to keep a hold of an irritable toddler’s hand in the other. He is still in his uniform, his cap stuck at an angle, kit bag held awkwardly in front of him, murmuring apology after apology to those around him as he tries to get out without causing damage to people or property.

‘Ben!’

Miranda raises her voice and a hand in greeting, dodging the slow surge of humanity as it descends onto the platform, trying to stop herself from being buffeted away.

‘Ben, I’m here!’

A young man in his early thirties, with his phone to his ear and a hand clamped around the leash of a small grey terrier that is yapping its’ head off in the confusion and excitement dodges round her with a grimace. The threads of his conversation filter back to her on the wind- things in the fridge for supper, what else he needed to get from the shops, a reminder about the time of his daughter’s dance class. The woman with the pushchair is kneeling beside the crying toddler, wiping away snot and tears and asking them to blow their nose with a pack of tissues and although on a normal day, she would try and see if she could be of help, today is not normal.

Her eyes are only for Ben, weaving his way slowly through the throng of passengers. His dark eyes light up at the sight of her, his kit bag falling to his feet with a thud, face splitting into the wide, ear-to-ear grin that she has missed so much.

‘Miranda?’

And suddenly she is in his arms and he in hers and time and space and reason itself seem to stretch and pulse before stopping altogether. Her lips are against his own, tasting salt and sand and the remains of a packet of Tyrrell’s cheese and onion crisps that he had eaten on the train. His hair rushes under her fingers, her nails losing themselves in his curls as she feels herself being lifted off her feet and a choked burst of sobbing laughter echoing against her cheek.

‘Mi niña querida,’ she hears him murmur in wonder between the kisses, his lips searching her cheek, her neck, the tip of her nose and she searches with him, pulling her hands away to touch him, to reassure herself that he is real and whole and not a part of her overactive imagination.

Her fingers find his dog tags resting on their chain in the pit of his throat, their cool, cylindrical smoothness falling perfectly into the palm of her hand and she slowly looks up into his face. The large, dark eyes that she loves so much are laughing through their tears and she sees freckles that were not there in their last FaceTime call, the sharp rise of his cheekbones, the thinnest of scars cut under his left eyelid, a stress spot tugging at the corner of his lip.

Blue black bruises caress the lower lids and her heart twists, her hands reaching instinctively to try and thumb them away that makes him chuckle, the sound soft and wet in the back of his throat.

‘I’m still here, you know,’ he murmurs into another kiss.

‘I know,’ she whispers back, resting her head underneath his chin, her palms on his chest, absorbing the steady thrum of his heart.

They draw apart at that and stare at each other, drinking each other in, committing each feature, each freckle or mole or scar to memory, before he reaches over to tuck a lock of ink black hair back behind her ear.

‘Shall we?’

She joins him in the station carpark after he has gone through the automatic ticket barriers, lugging his kitbag until it is safe to swing it onto his shoulders and take her hand in his.

The late spring air is soft to the point of sultriness, wood pigeons cooing in the beech tree that spreads its’ dappled leaves over an aged wooden park bench. A few skittish clouds tumble across the sky and they have to step hastily aside to let a couple of young boys on scooters dash past them, followed by their Mum calling out for them to be careful.

On the day before Ben had been deployed for this tour, they’d sat there for a few hours in the sun dappled afternoon, not speaking much, but listening to the soft rustle of pigeon wings and watching passers-by going about their business. Miranda still remembers that day. Still remembers the way that Ben had taken her face in his hands and kissed her twice- soft, sad kisses that had left so much unsaid.

‘Penny for your thoughts? And don’t say nothing, because it isn’t.’

Ben’s dark eyes glitter in the light, raising their clasped hands to his lips for another kiss.

‘Just remembering,’ she murmurs, then smiles because now is not the time to be sad. Now is the time to be merry and make music and love and good food and she laughs, pulling him into a dance on the pavement, so that his kit bag thumps against his back and she has to remind herself to watch for her phone. He is laughing too, his face lit up, split into the grin that she knows and loves and together they tumble towards the flat. Fumbling for her keys, Miranda curses the stiff lock in Spanish that makes Ben reach his large, calloused hands over hers and try, unsuccessfully, to help.

‘Are you sure it’s not the keys?’

‘Yes _Benito,_ I’m sure it’s not the keys, it’s- just- this- stupid- _bastardo_ lock! There!’

With a well-practiced shove, the lock gives way and she pulls him up the flight of winding stairs, past the blue-tacked notices from the council about bin collections, and, after a brief tangle with the keys, into the hallway.

The flat had been bought for them with a little help from Miranda’s uncle- the only member of her family who still thought her worthy of contact since she ran off to England in pursuit of an English university education.

The hallway is long and thin leading directly to a small bathroom. The living room and kitchen face east, and Miranda remembers sitting curled up on the sofa on nights where sleep seemed like a distant dream, hugging a cup of tea and watching the light slowly change until it is soft and grey and flecked with specks of washed pink dawn.

Beside her, Ben’s shoulders slump as he drops his kitbag, all the energy and pent-up emotion of the reunion draining out of him before her and her heart breaks at the sight of it.

He needs a shower, good food and sleep, she tells herself firmly as she nods in silent understanding.

He needs rest, peace and quiet and as much as she wants to talk about what’s happened and what will happen now, she knows she can’t. Not yet.

His eyes are burning and every inch of him radiates exhaustion.

She can only nod, her throat thick as he reaches to kiss her, his lips grazing her cheek.

‘I won’t be long, novia, _’_ he murmurs and a small smile creeps at the corners of her lips as she bats him away, his scent of sweat and travel and unwashed male flesh almost unbearable.

‘Go and shower, you cosa sucia! I’ll get the wine out, shall I?’

She makes to throw his kitbag at him, but he dodges her blow with ease, grinning cheekily. 

A quick nod and she flicks her fingers at him making him hurl himself hurriedly for the safety of the bathroom door and she cannot help but smile.

* * *

That evening, after a quiet afternoon that allows Miranda time to try and concentrate on her tutorial notes for Cultural Entrepreneurship tomorrow and Ben to unpack, shave and sleep, they eat spaghetti Bolognese with green beans, Vina Tondonia red wine and finish curled up on the sofa in the living room. Ben’s head is pillowed in her lap, his breathing slow and even in the soft, evening light. A pot of Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream and two spoons sits on the table but neither of them has the energy for anymore. Next to the table is a vase of rainbow tulips, their petals thrown into sharp contrast by the muted glare of the streetlamp below.

Resting her chin in his hair- freshly washed and smelling of soap rather than sweat, Miranda pulls out her phone and checks her messages. There are three, and two missed calls- both from Antonia, which makes her smile.

‘Teresa, Antonia and Harper send their love,’ she murmurs into his curls and he chuckles.

‘I’ve probably got the same messages,’ he replies after a moment’s pause, his voice slow and sluggish with sleep. ‘I left my phone on charge in my room. Can you read them for me?’

**T: Dearest M + B,**

**Mis amores, we are all home safe, fed, ¡watered and very tired! Your Father is immensely proud of you B. Can you ring home when you get the chance? M, make sure he goes to bed tonight.**

**All my dearest love,**

**T xxxx**

‘Make sure I go to bed tonight? What is this? Some kind of conspiracy?’

Twisting in her lap to see the phone, Ben scoffs, rolling his eyes in exasperation as he holds Miranda’s gaze. Raising an eyebrow and hiding a smile, Miranda flicks open Antonia’s message and laughs out loud.

‘Antonia types as she speaks, that’s for sure,’ Ben murmurs as she shows him the phone. Miranda can’t help but smile at the tenderness in his voice as he speaks about his younger sister, accepting a soft kiss over her lips as he scans the message.

**A: Miranda! Ben!**

**First, check your phones, both of you! I’ve tried to call both of you twice and neither of you picked up! Second,** **Mamá and Dad send their love and wonder if you can come and see us soon. Third, Dad wants you to know that you’re not to look at the news for another week.**

**Lots of love and hugs,**

**A xxxx**

‘That’s likely! I’ve had enough of inept journalists telling us how to do our jobs to last me a lifetime!’ His voice rises to almost a shout and Miranda presses her face into his hair and waits until he quietens.

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs quietly after a moment, passing the phone back. ‘It’s- It’s just-‘

‘I know,’ she whispers, her voice lost in his hair, although she is fully aware that she doesn’t know, not really and won’t until he is able to bare his soul and tell her.

For a moment, the night is pierced by a motorbike rumbling past, the screech of a fox in a back garden and then the silence stretches on.

‘What does Sarge say?’

The question is quiet, hesitant, as if he is ashamed of the outburst only a few moments ago.

‘Harper,’ she replies, scrolling down to find his text, biting her lip.

**H: Ben, good going today, lad.**

**Get some rest and good food into you and look after your lass. Ramona and little Patrick send their love and best wishes and I couldn’t be prouder.**

**Patrick Harper**

‘Little Patrick,’ Miranda breathes wistfully, closing the message and pushing her phone away, lost in imagining Patrick Harper’s coming home to a house full of a young toddler falling over his feet to try and reach him, and high pitched squeals as he is swung up into his Father’s arms, Ramona’s laughter, a warm embrace and the soft knitting together of a family once more.

‘It feels kind of funny thinking of Sarge as a Father,’ Ben murmurs, a small smile hidden in his voice.

‘Does it?’

She holds his gaze for a moment, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes and running a hand over his face.

‘Yes- I- No- I- I dunno, it’s just that he’s, Sarge’s always been a Father to us- to the men I mean and, I think because we only got e-mails and the odd letter with a photo from Ramona, little Patrick just didn’t feel real. D’you know what I mean?’

She nods, tucking her chin into his hair.

‘I’m sure the pequeño will feel quite real after a while,’ she muses, remembering the births of her siblings and always, always feeling in a state of unreality whilst looking at the small, pink, squalling bundle of humanity with their tufts of dark hair and large, blue eyes that saw everything and understood nothing. It had been a feeling that had always gone away when she had first been allowed to hold the baby and watch the soft, innocent gaze slowly blink their way onto the newness of the world and the chill that had gripped her anxious heart had melted into one of love.

Ben nods and stretches out a yawn, tucking his head back into her chest. His breathing is slowly evening out into sleep and she knows that if he had his way, he’d fall asleep on the sofa without a second thought.

On the still, night air, the bell of Winchester Cathedral strikes ten. She has a 9 am seminar tomorrow morning and even though it’s the last thing on her mind, she does not want to be late.

‘You should get to bed,’ she murmurs, unable to stop a small smile from dancing across her lips, slowly untangling herself from the mess of blankets and body. ‘I’ll do the washing up.’

‘Are you sure? You- you don’t have to. I can do it in the morning if you’ve got classes to go to, or-‘

Ben slowly pulls himself to face her, eyes quizzical, looking for all the world like a spaniel that doesn’t understand where its’ ball has gone.

‘I’ll be _fine,’_ she says, more firmly than she means to, pressing another kiss against his mouth, feeling the warmth of his blood rushing against her teeth. ‘You can dry and put away if you really want to, but-‘ 

‘Sure,’ he murmurs, with a soft smile, returning the kiss and by the light of the street lamp outside the kitchen window and the help of soapsuds, they begin to clear away.


	2. A Family! At Last A Family!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda and Ben slowly begin to get used to life again and are welcomed with open arms back into their extended family.

Campus is all noise, sweat and pressing crowds in the spring sunshine. Miranda weaves her way down towards the Tom Atkinson Building for her seminar on Cultural Entrepreneurship, which she’s already late for, not taking any of it in. She seems to have left the conscious part of her being back in the flat, curled up in the bed where Ben sleeps on, only a mop of dark curls visible from the sea of white duvet when she had left earlier that morning.

She’d pinned a note to the fridge that there was milk and fruit in the fridge and cereal in the cupboard above the hob and that she’d be back in the early afternoon. A soft, lingering kiss to his forehead and then she’d dropped her keys into her bag and let herself out.

‘Miranda?’

Now, as she stops to tighten the long, thick rope of hair that she’d tied this morning, her sleeping fingers fumbling automatically through the motions that she’s known since childhood, she can’t stop thinking about him.

‘Miranda! Wait a moment!’

Can’t stop thinking about the weight of his body pulling away from her own as he had struggled against his night-time demons, hands balled into fists against the sheets. She’d held him for as long as she could, her face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, listening to the jagged edge of his breathing. Feeling the sag of the mattress as he slowly got up, fingers trailing against her skin.

‘ _I love you so much, but you- you can’t help me. Not with this.’_

_‘What is it?’_

_A choked, sobbing silence was her answer, all the flippant, non-committal replies smashing to their feet, their jagged splinters left in bloodied footprints out of the bedroom._

_She’d known better than to follow him immediately._

_She’d waited and listened, listened to the click of the light switch, the groans of the pipes above their heads as he turned the tap on to fill the kettle._

_‘Ben?’_

_His eyes had been huge in a sleep-fugged face glowing eerily in the washed-out orange light of the streetlamp, the hand that held his tea trembling ever so slightly._

_Wordlessly she’d watched him put the mug down, sit at the table and then-_

‘Miranda. Hi.’

A hand on her shoulder, an out of breath greeting and she turns to see Mina, one of her Ghanaian classmates whom she’d met on the first day of the previous semester, her hair braided with beads, gold hooped earrings and a dark blue Gonja cloth shirt shot through with orange and green thread over black leggings, tortoiseshell glasses framing a wide, smiling face that Miranda loves dearly.

‘Hi, Mina,’ Miranda murmurs, stepping into the other girls’ arms. The embrace is warm and all-encompassing and Miranda holds onto it for as long as she dares.

‘You weren’t at the lecture yesterday,’ Mina reproaches as they draw apart and begin to walk with mutual understanding towards their tutorial, her eyes sparkling with questions.

‘No,’ Miranda cannot hide a smile, ducking her heard to tuck an escaped strand of hair back behind her ear.

‘Can I dare ask why?’

There’s a glint in her friend’s eye, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Miranda knows that she must relent or forever be teased until Mina gets to the bottom of the matter.

‘You remember Ben Perkins? I think he came to Rosie Abbott’s pre-drinks once and-?’

_Ben Perkins whose family has become mine and more._

_Ben Perkins who wept on my shoulder last night at 2 am in our kitchen over a cup of tea and whose kisses tasted of blood and sand and the bitter poison of memory._

_Ben Perkins who is an ace at Scrabble and beats me at the Spanish version._

_Ben Perkins whose love is deeper than his soul, who fights with fist and heart and head for them._

‘Your boyfriend? The one- The one in the army?’

_So much more than that, Mina!_

Miranda nods, struck, not for the first time of how little the war seems to affect those who didn’t have loved ones fighting in it. For them, the long 5 years in Iraq have been condensed to numbers and news presenters reporting of roadside bombings, photographs of cities in ruins, deaths of the far too young, the names of Baghdad, Bashur, Mosul and Fallujah merely names on a map.

‘Yes, well, he- He came home yesterday, properly I mean, and-!’

She bites her tongue and grabs Mina’s hands, trying to convey some of her excitement in a more rational way.

‘That’s fantastic! How is he?’

‘Tired,’ she replies truthfully, all her excitement deflating into a cold, stark reality. 

‘Or he was last night. He was dead to the world when I left earlier. We haven’t talked about- about any of it, yet.’

Mina makes a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat and puts an arm around Miranda’s shoulder, the warmth of her touch a comfort that she hadn’t realised she’d needed.

‘Well, to take your mind off him for a bit, can I remind you that we’re late _and_ that it’s our last tutorial? Annabel’s going to have our heads!’

* * *

She returns to the flat in the late afternoon after a catch-up meeting with her supervisor and an escape to the library to revise some key points on the second chapter of her dissertation.

As she’s hunting for her keys, her phone buzzes, the text from Teresa.

**T: Hi Miranda,**

**Ben rang us this morning- all fine here. What do you say to a weekend with us next weekend? Richard can pick you up from the station. It’ll be the start of Antonia’s reading week and she’s made plans to come home.**

**Let me know what you think, Chica. I hope the studying’s going well.**

**T xxx**

_A full weekend._

_A weekend out of Winchester and a quiet train towards Asheldham with its’ red roofed church and views out to the North Sea._

_A weekend without responsibilities, with time to sit and talk with Antonia, to joke with Teresa about the oddities of Spanish politics. The chance to see Richard’s vegetable garden and eat fresh radishes with the soil still clinging at their roots. The chance to take the car and have a brisk, blustery walk out onto the sand dunes with Ben, the sea grey and squalling with white horses, burying her hand in his and laughing as they tumbled down the seagrass._

_To talk._

Her throat constricts at that, sharp shards of salt stabbing suddenly at the corners of her eyes.

Swallowing thickly and swiping the tears away with the back of her hand, she tries to pull herself together.

Shoving the door to the building open, she makes her way up the stairs feeling lighter than she’s done in a long time.

The flat’s front door is open and the soulful power of Edith Plath from Ben’s battered record player takes her breath away as she quickly drops her rucksack in her room without taking in the mess. The flat smells of Flash and Dettol and the door to the tiny store cupboard where they keep the bathroom mop and the vacuum cleaner is half ajar. A pile of folded laundry with crisp, army corners and perfectly folded edges sits at the edge of her bed.

In the living room, she sees the post on the small table by the sofa, where they often eat in the evenings and flicks through it lazily. A gas bill, the newest menu from the local Chinese that’s run by a family whom she often passes on her way to campus. The sweet and sour chicken with rice noodles and chili sauce is the stuff that she wants to eat in heaven and the thought of it makes her mouth water.

The old pine desk that she’d bought for £3.99 at a car boot sale when her uncle had bought the flat is taken up by a box of Lyra Rembrandt pencils that lies open across a sheaf of sketching paper and she wonders, not for the first time, what stories the desk could tell.

_What histories of bored schoolchildren playing with penknives when they should have been focused on their lessons could be uncovered if she just dug beneath its’ surface wounds? What tortured romantic poet had sat at their desk, with quill and ink under a moonlit sky with a candle and a sheaf of vellum waiting for inspiration?_

And now Ben sits there, dark head bent, the sinews of his neck scattered with sun freckles pulsing against his skin. His hand scurries across the page, the pencil a blur of dark graphite, held in a dance with the rise and swell of Edith Piaf. Entranced she watches the light play across his curls, the shadows dancing over his face, his tongue just visible, his brow furrowed in concentration and knows, in that moment, that she’ll never be able to love another.

‘Hi Ben,’ she murmurs, moving across the room to turn the record player off.

‘Miranda.’

Dark eyes look up as he turns to her, and she can see that he’s still a world away, lost in whatever he’s been sketching. ‘Had a good day?’

‘A long day,’ she concedes with a smile, not wanting to think about university now, or the fact that the meeting has thrown up another hole in her chapter planning and pulling a chair up to rest a hand on his knee. Leaning back in his chair, he takes her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. The warmth and weight of his touch grounds her as her eyes dart to the sketches and back again in silent question.

‘You can look if you want to, I don’t mind.’

The top sketch shows the lamppost outside their flat, the opposite house’s garden with the dappled light of a horse chestnut tree sapling, the small raised bed where hydrangeas and ornamental poppies grow in a riot of colour. The wooden bench where there’s often a child or two playing, light and shadow dancing as if by magic from the pencil’s lead.

‘The light worked for it. Just now, it- ’With his free hand, he gestures to the soft dappled clouds that scatter the sky and chuckles, the sound warm and rich and deep in the back of his throat.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmurs, standing to press a soft kiss against his cheek, gently turning the corner of the paper to see the next sketch.

‘Ben- ‘

For a moment, Miranda is speechless, her fingers falling away as she stares at him, leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, his hands now laced back behind his head, a small smile playing across his lips.

The sketch is a portrait of herself, captured in soft shadows of pencil, her hair loose about her shoulders, the tiny silver crucifix that she’s worn ever since her first communion at the age of six glittering at her throat, her dark eyes blazing out of the paper, burning deep into her soul. Each pencil stroke is deft and deliberate, all of them playing a part to make up the portrait, nothing seeming, to her uneducated eye, out of place.

Deep in the left-hand corner, Ben has signed:

**Portrait of Miranda Desoto- Spanish bride**

**HB Pencil**

**Ben Perkins 15/04/2009**

She feels-

She doesn’t know what to feel.

_How_ to feel.

She feels naked, exposed, trapped under a glaring spotlight with nowhere to run and nothing to hide and yet-

And yet each pencil stroke is so deft, so delicate, each one crafted with love and patience and care that her heart weeps with the pain of it.

Now, he tips his chair forward and leans with his elbows on the desk, tracing out the drawing.

‘D’you like it? I- I remember trying to do something similar back- ‘ 

For a moment his voice falters, the chair tips forward and he stops; swallowing thickly as he looks away, gathering himself, and tries again.

‘Back when we were at Mosul, I started something similar- but I- I lost it during a retreat and I- I wanted to remember you, even though- ‘

‘You’ve done more than that,’ she murmurs, swallowing back her sudden panic and taking his face in her hands. The rise of his cheekbones press up into her palms, her nails running over the ridges of freckles, the curve of his ears, reaching up to lose themselves in his curls. 

_Holy Mother, how long has she longed to do just this?_

Reaching up to take her hands, he slowly pulls her onto his lap, tucking his chin into her shoulder.

‘Teresa texted me,’ she murmurs into the comfortable silence, digging her phone out of her pocket.

‘Oh? What did she say?’

He presses a kiss in the space between her shoulder blades, his teeth grazing the skin Giggling, she squirms out of his grasp to face him again, batting away his searching hands, revelling in the small, suggestive smile that tugs at his lips.

‘That tickles, you niño tonto! She invited us to stay with them next weekend. Antonia will be there for her- ‘Her brain pulls a blank at the English phrase and tries to translate it into Spanish instead.

‘Her semana de lectura?’

‘Reading week,’ he corrects her with a smile.

‘Yes, reading week. We could get the train over on Friday evening and come back on Monday morning. I don’t have any contact time usually on Monday and- ‘

‘That sounds _wonderful,’_ he breathes, and it’s almost as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. His smile seems brighter, his eyes clearer, the touch to her cheek lighter and in the soft afternoon light, he looks the boy that she fell in love with as they walked home through the Cathedral grounds on a summers’ evening, six years ago.

She is eternally grateful for that.

* * *

They arrive at Asheldham station late on the following Friday evening, two overnight bags stuffed in the luggage racks above their heads.

The train is not quite full, the usual array of businessmen on their way out of London, a few undergraduates from Winchester going home for reading week. Miranda lets her head rest on Ben’s shoulder, the weight of his hand in hers, the lull and rock of the train grounding her.

Soon they would be under the red brick roof of Birchwood cottage, its’ exposed Oak beams, sashed windows and whitewashed walls a sanctuary from the world. There would be agapanthuses in the Delft vase on the piano, honeysuckle creeping along the red brick wall and dripping its’ scent into the living room, the first lettuces coming out of the vegetable garden. Bluebells will be coming to an end in the wood behind the church. 

They would walk down the hill of pheasant grass towards the sea with Antonia, a tartan rug and a picnic basket, and let the salt-stained air blow away the dust that has enveloped their lives.

‘What are you thinking of?’

Ben’s voice is a whispered question, his elbow digging into her side as he rummages for their tickets to show the guard.

Miranda buries her nose in his shoulder, drinking in the strange, sharp, smoky scent that clings to him. 

‘Home,’ she says simply, her eyes on the darkening window, the shadows of trees and houses and lampposts rushing past, unable to put it any clearer than that.

‘Poneferrada? You miss it?’

‘No,’ she replies, looking past him, into the body of the train, but not seeing any of it.

_She doesn’t miss Poneferrada._

_She doesn’t miss her family ruled by her grandfather who had fought with the Nationalists under Franco in the Spanish Civil War, whose memories had bled down to her Father. She doesn’t miss watching the rippling aftershocks of three years of fighting that still, fifty years later, made political seizures run jagged, bloody rifts through towns. Seizures that, even now ripped families apart, tearing husbands and sons into bloody shreds, uncles and nephews into unknown opposition on either side of a barricade._

_She doesn’t miss walking through a town that still shook with the ghosts of artillery bombardments, nearly fifty years later, the ghosts of Guernica, Durango and Madrid wandering the streets that had swept their memory away like a bad dream. Had moved on, or tried to, the old hatred still burning brightly in the hearts of some._

_She doesn’t miss her days being berated by her Father telling her that it was useless for a girl to gain a good college education, each word as sharp as broken glass burying its’ icy pain deep under her skin until she had had enough. That it would be better for her to stay at home, look after her siblings and learn how to be a good wife._

_She doesn’t miss the arguments, her Mother telling her with a dark look to take her siblings upstairs and lock the door. Doesn’t miss telling her siblings to go to their rooms and locking her own door as the shouting started, sinking to the floor with her hands clamped over her ears to try and make it stop._

_Doesn’t miss the weight of his hand raised in anger, when the rage had seized him, slapping down to cut across her cheek, sending her sprawling across the floor._

_Doesn’t miss-_

‘Hey,’ Ben’s voice is soft, the weight of his arm around her shoulder bringing her back to the present with a start. His eyes are wide and dark with concern and looking up, she sees that they’re slowing into the station, the carriage slowly filling up with passengers shuffling slowly down the compartment with their luggage.

‘I’m all right,’ she says quickly, too quickly and he gives a sceptical look in reply, a questioning eyebrow quirked.

‘Shall we get our stuff?’

She can feel the note of hysteria in the question before she’s finished asking it and Ben nods, squeezing her hand and standing to pull down two overnight bags.

They’re met outside the station by Richard, sat in his battered old Volvo in the station carpark and grinning like an idiot.

‘Ben! Miranda!’

He’s in his gardening coat, a battered, much darned Barbour with patches on the elbows and shredded cuffs and looks more like a Yorkshire farmer than a Major in the Army. Miranda cannot stop herself from smiling as she watches Ben being pulled into a gigantic bear hug by his adopted Father.

‘Good to see you, lad. Good journey over?’

His voice is home to her. Home and safety, security and stability- all the things she hadn’t realised she’d needed until the first evening that Ben had invited her to Birchwood. She’d been bloodied and broken and as fragile as glass, still so frightened of England as she had hovered in the kitchen, unsure of whether she was welcome. But Teresa had taken her in her arms then and steered her to a seat at the kitchen table. She’d sent Ben and Richard and the girl, a little younger than herself with the wide, grey eyes who had hovered in the doorway, and who she’d later been introduced to as Antonia, away and soothed and comforted in the only way that she’d known how.

And now Richard’s arms are wide and welcoming as she steps into them, drinking in his scent of earth and firewood, Ben beaming in the glare of the car headlights.

‘It’s good to have you, lass,’ Richard murmurs into her hair, his voice a low, comforting rumble against her skin.

They reach Birchwood cottage just as the big church bell is chiming 07:30, the Volvo jumping and rattling over the potholed road, Led Zeppelin’s Greatest Hits throbbing through the battered stereo system.

Lights twinkle through the half open kitchen window, the sound of a Spanish jazz guitar on the stereo floating serenely through the still night air.

A light in an upstairs window is on, blocked into shadow by a waving figure who disappears as soon as they draw up.

‘She’s been waiting for you all day. Couldn’t get a bit of work done.’ Richard smiles ruefully through the rear-view mirror as the front door bangs open and Antonia rushes out in a whirlwind of greetings. ‘Go on, both of you. I’ll get your bags.’

‘’tonia! How are you little sis?’

Ben has lifted his little sister off her feet and into a tight hug, swinging her round as she squeals with laughter, looking for all the world like the eight-year-old that she was when he had first arrived at Birchwood.

‘I knew you’d come!’ She cries as he sets her down and looks her over, her grey-blue eyes that are so like Richard’s, gleaming in the light from the hall.

‘Wouldn’t miss a chance to be in a good bed with _good_ food,’ Ben teases, shooting Miranda a teasing look that she returns with a thump to his arm. Antonia grins back, throwing herself at Miranda.

‘I’m so glad you’ve come! It’s been so _dull_ without you!’

Before Miranda can reply, her hand is being grabbed and along with Ben she is being dragged into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

The CD is still playing, the sharp staccato notes of Ottmar Liebert’s Barcelona Nights twisting her heart into a sudden ache of homesickness.

‘The prodigals return!’

Teresa is at the kitchen table with a big, terracotta bowl of dressed rocket, grilled chicken breast and rainbow chard scattered with pine nuts, anchovies and sundried tomatoes in front of her, grating a block of Manchego cheese. A glass decanter of olive oil sits on the table beside her chopping board. The liquid is thick and swirling green and gold, and Miranda thinks of the oil sellers on market day at Ponferadda. In her minds’ eye she sees their great urns of olive oil that had come down from the mountains with the little brass taps that would run into an offered jar, the liquid gushing thick and luxurious in the soft September sun.

Teresa’s sleeves are pulled up, her hair tucked in a scarf. The tendons of her hands flex and pull as she shaves the last of the cheese and lets it cascade in waves of creamy curls onto the salad.

‘Miranda,’ she murmurs, her dark eyes shining, arms wide and open, pulling her into a hug that Miranda doesn’t realise she’s needed until she’s firmly within the embrace.

‘It’s so good to see you querida,’ Teresa murmurs into her hair.

‘It’s good to be here,’ Miranda replies and doesn’t need to tell Teresa how much she means it.

Doesn’t have the words to tell her that Birchwood has become more of a home than her parents’ house ever was.

That she feels safe here.

Loved here.

From the passageway, she can hear Richard and Ben stamp their luggage inside, Antonia pulling open the cutlery drawer, and filling a water jug to lay the table for supper. She hears Ben begin to lug the bags upstairs and means to go after him, but Antonia shakes her head, trying to balance wine glasses on her fingers like a juggler.

‘You’re in the spare room, under the eaves, Miranda. It’ll be quiet up there and Ben’s next door in his old room. He knows what he’s doing.’ Still balancing the wine glasses on her fingers, Antonia twirls and places each one on the table with a theatrical flourish.

‘He _should_ know what he’s doing,’ Teresa corrects her daughter with a smile, before turning back to the stove.

Miranda says nothing, her thoughts overflowing love for all of them.

‘Will we want wine tonight, d’you think love? They’re the last bottles that Harris gave us for our anniversary. Shall we-?’

Richard is in the doorway, a bottle of red wine in each hand. From the back stairs, she can hear Ben thundering back down to join them and cannot help but smile.

‘Yes please!’ Antonia chimes in, too busy on lighting candles to focus on her Father.

‘It’s a celebration! Of course we’ll have wine!’ Teresa claps her hands and at that moment Ben clatters into the kitchen. His dark eyes are shining as Teresa enfolds him into her arms.

‘Mum! Get off- I- I’m too old for-!’

‘He says he’s too old to be kissed!’ Teresa’s voice rises in mock outrage, her eyes smiling and Richard chuckles at the sight of Ben desperately trying to evade her touch.

Unable to help herself, Miranda shakes her head in mock exasperation. ‘You’re never too old to be kissed, mi hijo,’ she murmurs against a smile, standing on tiptoe to press one against his forehead. ‘See?’

And then Richard is pressing a wine glass into their hands, accepting a kiss from Teresa and Antonia’s blonde curls are dancing in the candlelight as she dims the main lights and draws the curtains. Teresa is bearing the salad and cod fillets baked with cheese and breadcrumbs and Ben’s arm is slipped around her waist as he raises his glass to the room.

‘¡Salud!’

The sound of glasses chinking as they sit down for supper and the weight of Ben’s hand clasped in hers under the table makes Miranda’s heart sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
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> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
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> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	3. Broken Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woken in the night by Ben in a grip of a nightmare, Miranda unearths a few unspoken terrors along the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, hopefully, going to be the most brutal of the lot, so please proceed with caution.

Miranda wakes in the night to a low, keening cry coming from the next room. It’s a low, wounded cry, one that plunges to the base of her soul and sets the hairs on the back of her neck on edge.

Lying the shifting darkness, she lets the room slowly slip and slide, her eyes focussed on the dark Oak beams that cross across the ceiling. Outside her window, the honeysuckle brushes against a breath of breeze, ghostly fingers pattering against glass. A sliver of tattered moonlight pools through the curtains and puddles in a stream of silver against the bare wooden floor. She remembers Ben standing by the window, arms braced on the sill before they had said their goodnights, looking down onto the lawn, her chin resting on his shoulder.

_His crop of dark curls had been cast in shadow from the light, his expression unreadable in the shadows and only his eyes had seemed alive when he had turned to her, burning with a fierce, wounded pride. He had turned from the window and crossed the room in two strides to take her face in his hands, his breathing thick and choked, calloused fingers wordlessly tracing the lines of her cheekbones._

_‘I’m sorry.’_

_The words had been a brittle whisper against her forehead, almost lost beneath a tentative, tender kiss._

_‘Why?’_

_The question had sounded hopelessly childish as she said it, and he had shaken his head, letting his fingers linger for a moment against her cheek before he’d left her._

And now, as she lies in the darkness listening to the desperate, haunted cry, she knows that she can’t leave him to face his demons alone.

* * *

The house creaks and groans around her as Miranda makes her way down the passageway to Ben’s room.

The weight of the cries hangs about her heart like a rope, sweat pulling at the back of her hands, drenching her skin.

Someone has left the round window on the landing at the top of the stairs open and for a moment she stops, pulls it to, letting her fingers run absently against the mullioned glass.

Across the passageway, she hears Antonia sigh sleepily, the slap of feet hitting bare floorboards, the creak of a window ledge being pulled down. She is glad that Antonia is here. Glad that she can share some of her joys and pains with someone who understands their brittle brokenness.

There is a chink of light underneath Ben’s door, and she moves to it instinctively. Deep in her chest her heart twists and weeps with unknown pain, its’ beats thundering manically through her ears. 

A low, pained moan echoes through the old, hard wood and her heart clenches as she stops, her hand hovering at the door, unable to bear it and yet seemingly unable to stop herself.

‘Don’t- Don’t, please! _Daya!_ Please-‘

Each word is a dagger to her soul, a desperate cry for help that she doesn’t know how to give, only that she must try, or feel forever damned for failing him.

Pushing the door open, Miranda finds herself standing in shadows. Ben’s curtains have blown open, slivers of moonlight pooling against a crop of dark curls thrashing against the pillow.

His duvet has been kicked down so that it tangles against his feet, his back arched against the sobs as he curls himself further and further into a foetal position. His shoulder blades are hard up against his ears, his hands clenched into fists against the crumpled sheet and Miranda’s heart weeps with the pain of it.

Weeps at the desperate, whimpering pleading that comes from the bed, each word torn and ragged with tears

‘Stop- _Stop-_ Please, just make it stop!’

‘Ben?

A tentative step.

A hand to his shoulder, feeling the hard line of bone and muscle underneath his shirt as she kneels beside the bed, reaching with her other hand to fumble for the switch to his bedside light.

The bulb flickers, hissing and flaring before it finally comes good.

For a moment she takes in the rooms’ contents lit up in shadowed darkness. A bookshelf runs the length of the back wall, adorned with a few tattered copies of the Alex Rider books, Michael Morpurgo’s _Kenzuke’s Kingdom_ and _War Horse,_ Robert Louis Stevenson’s _Kidnapped_ and _Treasure Island,_ a dog eared edition of Voltaire’s _Candide_. A framed photograph of Richard, Teresa and Antonia standing in the garden and beaming out of the frame and an Oxford English Dictionary act as bookends, a piece of blanched driftwood, a rusted number plate, a sketch of the sea done in charcoal, its paper curling slightly at the edges, his Royal Green Jackets beret with its’ tiny sniper hole looped over the end of a bedpost.

‘Ben,’ she murmurs, tearing her eyes away and turning back to the bed. Her voice chokes, straining to keep a hold on his struggling shoulder.

‘Ben, it’s me. It’s Miranda. You’re- You’re safe now. You’re home. It’s- It’s all right.’

_Is it?_

A muffled scream echoes from the pillow as he tries to twist away from her, his dark head turning to bury itself completely into its folds.

‘Ben? Miranda?’

From the passageway, the floorboards creak and Richard’s broad face comes out of the shadows, dressed in dark blue striped pyjamas. His eyes are bleary with sleep, widening at the sight of the shaking figure in the sheets, his mouth a thin, worried line.

A broken moan echoes from the bed and Miranda’s heart twists in agony as she watches Richard move with as much speed as his metal knee will carry him to her side.

She can only shake her head mutely at the unspoken question that burns deep within his gaze, squeezing her eyes shut at the unwanted shards of salty tears that prick persistently there.

‘No- I didn’t- _I didn’t!’_

‘Lad. Oh, my lad,’ he murmurs, his voice soft and breaking with tenderness as he lowers himself onto the end of the bed, one hand reaching over to brush a fallen lock of hair out of Ben’s eyes. His free hand reaches slowly to grip Ben’s other shoulder, slowly easing him out of the mess of sheets and into his lap.

Mutely, Miranda watches Ben struggle in Richard’s arms, the older man’s grip firm and tender as he tucks his head into the boys’ hair, voice lost into soft, sweet nothings.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she hears him whisper fiercely, as Ben begins to quieten, hands balled into fists against his Father’s chest, tears leaking from swollen eyes. ‘It _wasn’t_ \- d’you hear me?’

Through tear-blurred eyes, she watches the broken boy whom she loves with the entirety of her being slowly come round, dark eyes shining out of a pale, drawn face.

‘How d’you know that?’

The question is brittle and raw with emotion, roughly swiping the tears away, his question smashing to the ground before she can register it fully.

‘Because-,’ Richard pauses, gathering himself as he slowly loosens the grip on Ben’s shoulders so that he can sit.

‘Because after we heard the news about Sulaimanya, after your Father-‘He swallows thickly before continuing, his expression unreadable in the intermittent light.

‘Your Father promised me on his honour that it wasn’t. He made me swear that we’d get you out Ben! For- For Christ’s sake lad, you were _eleven!_ How were you supposed to know what to do with those Iraqi bastards?’

His voice is low and dangerous, more menacing than Miranda’s ever heard it.

‘I should’ve stayed,’ Ben replies, turning his gaze away. Each word plunges itself deep into Miranda’s heart and twisting itself harder and harder until she can barely breathe.

‘She _wanted_ me to and I- I got scared and-‘

The words trail off and he stares mutely at his hands, each breath a heaving effort to regain control.

‘Everyone gets scared, Ben,’ Richard says gently, his fingers working small, comforting circles against his son’s shoulders. Reaching across the bed, Miranda tentatively takes one of Ben’s hands in hers, the weight of it shaking in her grasp, but he doesn’t look at her. ‘You were a child. Nobody blames you for what happened.’

‘I do!’

The words are spat out, wet and cold and vehement into the night, his hand jerking out of Miranda’s grasp.

‘Every year on the anniversary, I do! I see her- Their guns- Their faces- And there’s nothing I can do! I should’ve protected her and- And all I could do was get pushed back and run away!’

He trails off, biting back the unspoken words that hang in the air in the for a fraction of a second and then smash to the ground, never to be uttered again.

Richard says nothing, simply holds Ben closer, tucking his head into his chest.

Miranda watches, trying to look anywhere but Ben or Richard, hating herself.

Hating the fact that she has had no idea about any of this. Hating the fact that the story had always been always told from after the Chosen Men had returned from the Gulf. That Ben’s life had always been picked up after that agonising year of meetings and screenings, waiting and court summons, lawyers waiting rooms and a short, lonely spell in a children’s home in Whitfield, until the adoption papers had been signed and he had been granted citizenship under the name of Moreno-Sharpe. That this part of his story, the part of his past that makes up so many of threads that wove his tapestry of life has been shielded from her.

Her fingernails dig themselves into the back of her hands, but she doesn’t feel the pain.

Later she will find red welts underneath her knuckles with no knowledge of how they got there.

‘Ben,’ his name is a whisper on her tongue, and she swallows thickly, willing herself not to cry.

_Why?_

_Why didn’t you-_

She wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to-

But she can’t do any of those things.

Not now.

Slowly, he pulls his way out of Richard’s arms to look at her, eyes swollen and bloodshot.

The hand that reaches across the bed trembles ever so slightly, his gaze deep and fathomless, searing into her soul.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, the words almost lost in the silence.

Miranda doesn’t reply but closes the space between them with a whispered kiss.

* * *

The next morning dawns grey and chilled, the sky awash with thick, white clouds. The air is soft and wet with the reminders of the previous night’s rain.

The soft song of a wood pigeon greets Miranda as she pulls the window open and begins to prepare her hair for plaiting, allowing the soft, rain washed breeze to soak her skin.

At the end of the lawn, a birch tree lets its’ branches whisper over the circular bench that Antonia says her Father and Harper had built for Teresa’s wedding present when they had first moved to Birchwood. Dan Hagman and Ben sit there now, clutching mugs of tea, their breath coming in chilled, fresh clouds in the morning air. Dan’s arm is slung across the back of the bench. His face is turned away so that she can’t read his expression, but she’s glad that he’s here.

The sight is enough to loosen the knot of painful panic that has lodged itself around her heart just a fraction and for that Miranda is grateful.

Antonia is sat at the kitchen table eating toast when she comes down, a copy of _Evolving English_ propped up against the milk jug, her hair falling in waves of blonde about her face. The sight of her trying to read, eat her toast and not spill jam all at the same time cannot stop Miranda from smiling as she hovers in the doorway, drinking in the scene.

A vase of oxeye daisies sits in pride of place in the centre of the table alongside a trug of fresh lettuces and a copy of the Saturday Times. Outside the kitchen door, she can hear Richard bashing mud off his boots, humming a tune she can’t quite catch.

Teresa stands at the sink, humming softly to herself as she peels potatoes. Turning back to face the kitchen, she puts the last potato into a pan of cold water and dusts her hands down on her apron.

‘Morning. ‘Randa. Sleep well?’

Antonia’s eyes are shining with a smile as she tries to speak around a mouthful of toast, which makes her Mother tut softly as she begins to clear away.

‘Si, querida,’ Miranda murmurs over her shoulder with a smile as she rummages through the kitchen cupboard for muesli and Antonia grins, grasping her hand in a light, comforting squeeze.

‘Good,’ Teresa replies from the door, her arms filled with a stack of paperwork under her arm and a black leather diary. 

‘Ricardo told me everything about last night,’ she murmurs, her eyes shining as she takes Miranda’s hand in a soft, tight squeeze. ‘I’m glad that you were there. For Ben, I mean. Thank you.’

Miranda finds she can only nod. Her throat feels thick, all the words that she wants to say caught against her tongue as she watches Teresa breeze out of the kitchen towards her office. She hears Hagman and Ben stamping through the passageway, Ben’s laugh a tonic to a tortured soul, but doesn’t take it in, mechanically eating her muesli as she tries to think.

Tries to understand.

She doesn’t know how or where to begin and the realisation squeezes itself on her heart, irremovable, unchangeable and as solid as lead.

‘Buenos días, mi amor.’ The weight of Ben’s arms around her waist makes her start, the prickle of stubble against her cheek, each word brimming with whispered smiles.

‘Buenos días to you too,’ she chuckles, turning in her chair to face him, reaching out to trace the line of his cheek. Blue-black bruises caress his lower lids and instinctively she tries to blot them out, which earns a chuckle from Ben. Taking her wrist, he traces the lines of her veins with an artists’ eye, lips brushing against her skin in a whispered kiss.

‘I was thinking of taking the car to the beach today. We could take a picnic, make a day out of it?’

His eyes are shining, and she nods, visions of the squalling sea, the peace of the dunes, the cries of the gulls, the flashes of an oyster catcher’s vivid orange bill, the gritty bite of sand filled sandwiches and a thermos of tea sounding heavenly.

_‘Yes, please_.’

‘You’re going to the beach? Can I come? _Please_?’

Antonia’s voice breaks through Miranda’s reverie and Ben raises an eyebrow in mock consideration, appraising his sister.

‘Hm. What do you think, Miranda? Shall we let our little scholar come? Don’t you have some _very_ important reading to do, Antonia?’

The question has a teasing lilt to it and Antonia folds her arms and glares at him, a stubborn pout setting in her mouth.

Miranda cannot help but laugh.

‘Don’t tease,’ she murmurs, nodding her ascent to Antonia who grins.

‘Thank you!’ She beams and Ben rolls his eyes, throwing his hands into the air in a gesture uncannily like Teresa’s.

* * *

‘Don’t forget that Patrick, Ramona and little Patrick are Skypeing tonight. Ben, Antonia, your Mam will skin you if you’re late!’

Richard’s warning rings in their ears and Hagman’s weathered face creases into a smile as they pile into the car, Radio 1’s Top 40 blaring from the stereo system. The boot is laden with a picnic basket, rugs, coats and a thermos full of tea, the taste of freedom sweet on their tongues.

‘We won’t, Richard,’ Miranda assures him, unable to hide a smile at the sight of Ben shaking his head in disbelief at the wheel and Antonia rolling her eyes from the back seat.

They drive in companionable silence, letting the radio do most of the talking. Ben’s hand trembles slightly on the gearstick, a muscle pulsing in his neck as he slowly winds the car down the narrow country lanes with the high, honeysuckle laden hedges and onto the main road.

Miranda rolls her window down, letting the soft, westerly breeze rush over her, the wind cold and sharp with salt.

‘You OK?’

Easing the car into fourth gear, Ben slowly lets his hand off the gearstick and reaches for her own, their hands clasping, fingers entwining in mutual understanding. Pulling her seatbelt off, Antonia leans on the back of the passenger seat and rests her chin on her elbows, her eyes closed, a blissful smile blossoming on her lips.

‘Yeah,’ Miranda murmurs, staring out at the road and stifling a giggle as they hit the untarmacked track that leads to the carpark, shaking the suspension and making Ben curse under his breath.

They tumble out of the car in a confusion of coats and picnic blankets. The sun is shrouded in a sea of grey cloud, flecks of white light tinged with darker blue straggling onto the water.

Soft squalls pull at the waves, tumbling white horses crashing and breaking over the shingle. A flock of sand pipers rise in a clatter of buff and black blocked wings as they make their way onto the sand, the air sharp with the herring gull’s harsh chorus. Down at the shoreline, the seaweed glistens over the rocks like a soft, green lake.

The wind ripples through the bank of seagrass, and Miranda pulls the collar of her coat up, burying her nose into its warmth.

‘You look-‘

Ben’s face is pinched and shining with cold, the rest of whatever he’s going to say caught off in a gust of wind as he reaches for her hand, tucking it in his.

‘Cold? _Si,_ _señor,_ I am feeling cold. Ben, can we walk, please?’ She shoves him in the ribs to try and prove her point, which he dodges with ease, keeping a firm grip on her hand.

They walk in silence for a while, listening to the whistle of the wind, the squelch of the sand against their shoes, the piercing cries of oyster catchers, the crash and pull of the waves against the shore.

Ben’s expression is guarded against the cold, his gaze dark and shuttered in an unpenetrable mask that Miranda would give anything to tear down.

At last he stops and swallows thickly, turning to her with a great shattered breath trembling from his lips.

‘Miranda- Last night- I- I haven’t- I didn’t- And I haven’t explained it- But I- Ah!’

He sucks his teeth in frustration, running a hand distractedly through his hair as he looks out towards the distant blue thread of headland far out on the horizon.

‘I didn’t mean for you to hear all that,’ he tries again, the grip on her hands tightening until she wants him to tell him to stop but cannot find the right words.

_But I did,_ she thinks desperately, holding his gaze. _And I don’t understand, Ben and I won’t. I can’t. Not unless you tell me._

He swallows thickly, shoulders slumping in resignation as he glances back up the beach to where Antonia is laying out the picnic things. Catching her brother’s eye, she waves frantically, a Tupperware box of clingfilmed sandwiches in one hand, the other clutching the Thermos.

Miranda waves back, and tries to smile, hoping that she will understand.

‘My Daya,’ Ben is saying, still staring out to sea and bringing her back with a start.

‘My _birth_ Mother,’ he sucks in a breath, and a tight, pained knot tightens itself in Miranda’s throat as she watches him gather himself to try again.

‘My birth Mother was a lawyer in Sulaimaniya. She- She was Kurdish,’ he stops and glances at her and for a moment she feels as if she’s falling into a time that she has not experienced. It’s as if she’s standing on a street of a hot, dry city, her ears assaulted by the rattling of army jeeps, the cries of street vendors, a mullah in green robes. She sees Ben, a rat-thin boy with a crop of dark hair, and innocent eyes in a school uniform of a white polo shirt and navy shorts, chasing his friends to the pastry shop through the dust.

‘My Father had come out to Iraq from Britain as a young journalist working for the BBC,’ Ben continues. His voice is dull and colourless, and she can see just how hard he is fighting to keep the memories in place.

‘He’d studied Arabic and Journalism at university in England and it was his first job. My Daya was being called to the bar just as the war broke out. They met at a club, had a few drinks. Talked about-‘

He runs a shaking hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut for the briefest of moments before continuing.

‘I don’t know- politics, the latest music coming in from the West, her job, his family back home. I- I think- I remember them discussing passages of Voltaire together,’ he chuckles softly, and Miranda knows that he’s thinking of Harris. Without warning, she remembers the dog-eared copy of _Candide_ on his bookshelf and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold rushes down her spine.

‘They went out a few times. Fell in love. They married in secret and when- When she realised she was pregnant and he was asked to take on the role of war correspondent, he wanted to get her out. Get her down to Kuwait City to where the British would take her in, or over the Zagros mountains and into Iran. She knew the risks, but she- She refused to go. She refused to leave him. Refused to leave her job, leave her colleagues, leave me and-‘

A broken, shattered breath.

‘My first lullabies were whispered against the roar of planes and the rattle of guns in the distance and Daya whispering to me to be quiet and not cry, because otherwise-‘

Each word is an effort, each word a piece of broken memory carefully plucked from the darkness of time. Instinctively, Miranda grips his hand tighter, her fingers running over the rise of his knuckles, the callouses that rub against the inside of his fingers.

‘He was down in Kuwait on a job when they came. I was eleven- just about to sit my exams to get into secondary school, which I wasn’t very good at,’ Ben continues with a rueful chuckle, before fixing his gaze again on the flecks of white horses that tumble over the grey, squalled sea. His hands are balled into fists, shaking against Miranda’s grasp.

And she can see him- a skinny, scrappy boy of eleven, his mind full of English comprehension questions, Maths problems and football, running home through the hot, arid streets. Crowding in line with his classmates at the pastry shop, skidding to a halt outside the office at the sight of army jeeps screeching down the road.

‘The secret police came to her offices and-‘

He breaks off again, swallows convulsively and looks away.

‘They accused her and her staff of selling state secrets. Of being in league with the Iranian forces, of aiding and abetting the _pesh murgas_ which -‘

‘It’s _ridiculous._ They tried to plead their cases- my- my Daya fought to try and protect her colleagues, forced the soldiers to prove validity of the charges, but- But they-‘

Miranda isn’t sure that she wants to hear any more.

‘Ben -‘

His name is a breath in her mouth, lost in the cries of the seagulls as they wheel and dive in the steely sky.

‘Ben,’ she tries again, but he shakes his head, his gaze still distant, lost in the memory of sand and blood and loss.

‘They ordered them out from their desks and into the public square. I- I don’t know where I was when the order came- but- when I got there- She made me promise-‘

‘Come back. Come back, _mi querido,’_ Miranda murmurs, reaching out to touch his cheek, knowing full well that they are only words, but hoping in a small way that they will help. The skin is damp with salt and when he turns to her his eyes are blazing.

She hates what she sees in those eyes, each memory imprinting itself behind her eyes like a film unrolling before her.

_Hates that she can smell the fear of the terrified women being lined up against a wall, the hot, still air stinking of fear and death. Can hear the unified click of a line of rifles being cocked as the soldiers knelt in the dust and raised their weapons to their shoulders._

_The scream of a terrified boy breaking out from the crowd of onlookers, careless of the soldiers, dark eyes desperate as they search for his Mother._

_She sees Ben rounding on the men, fists raised, spitting out hatred that had made the officers laugh at this wild, angry child and push him away with a rifle butt._

_She sees them laugh as he stumbled back, eyes blazing, lips quivering, pushed back into obscurity as the crowd closed in._

_The shot ripping the air like a knife through cloth._

_The bodies crumpling to the ground like marionettes whose strings had been cut, their lifeblood pooling in rivers of stinking scarlet on the pavement._

‘I couldn’t save her. I- I tried! God knows I tried, but I- I didn’t know what I was doing- When I managed to get to a telephone and ring my Father’s office, they told me-‘

Ducking his head away from her, she watches him drop his head in his hands and swipe roughly at his eyes, before staring blindly out to sea, all pretence of composure vanished.

He cannot say any more and she finds that she doesn’t want him to.

‘Does Antonia know?’

The question sounds impossibly loud in the sudden quiet.

‘Yes. I know.’

Antonia’s voice makes her start. She’s standing at Ben’s shoulder, her blonde hair that is so like Richard’s caught and blown about her windswept face, her eyes bright and shining as she takes his hand in a silent squeeze, pressing a clingfilmed sandwich into it and handing another to Miranda with a sad, forced smile.

‘I was at the court hearings. I heard all of it. Dada didn’t want me to come, but Mamá insisted. It-‘

She shakes her head in remembrance, chancing a glance at Ben who gives her a small, tight smile.

Overhead, the gulls and the oystercatchers continue to cry, the tide slowly rising, soaking their shoes. A weak, white shard of sunlight pierces the clouds, lighting the flight of an oystercatcher as it skims over the crests of the waves.

Out in the distance, the shadow of a red and white hulled fishing boat bobs against the sliver of indigo horizon and Ben’s free hand reaches for hers.

His grip is shaky, five fingers trembling in her palm as he lifts it to his lips, the kiss drenched with salt and anguish.

It’s not enough, Miranda thinks, as Antonia begins to lead them back across the sand to the picnic rug.

It’s not nearly enough, but as she watches Ben pour himself a mug of tea from the thermos and settle himself down on the rug, staring out to sea, she realises that it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	4. I'm Pleased To Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a Skype call with Harper and Ramona in Northern Ireland and in the comfort of their extended family, Miranda and Ben slowly begin to pick up the pieces of their lives together

They return to Birchwood Cottage in a soft, squall of thundery rain that spits against the windows in flurries, curling over the windscreen wipers in tendrils of cold.

Shadows of salt cling to Miranda’s hair, dark wisps escaping her plait and fanning her face as they trundle down the main street, past the church and pull up in front of the red bricked cottage.

The front door has been left ajar and lights are twinkling from a half open kitchen window.

She sees Richard making tea at the hob, his battered gardening coat slung over the back of a chair.

A pair of wellingtons have been kicked off by the doormat, mud and soil clinging to their soles. A trug of blue bearded irises sits by them, their softly violet flowers caught in a sheen of raindrops.

Antonia slips out of the car with a pointed look through the rear-view mirror, which Miranda can only translate to mean: ‘talk to him.’

Miranda watches her go with a stab of panic, her blonde curls bobbing in the rain-swept breeze. The ripple of her shirt catches against her shoulder blades, the flash of her ankles pulling from the cut of her jeans as she lugs the picnic things out of the boot and calls inside that they are home.

‘Home,’ Ben murmurs beside her, sitting back with a long, slow breath. One hand is thrown back against the seat’s headrest, the other reaching for her own.

She gives it gladly, forcibly swallowing back the guilty knot that has been lodged in her throat ever since she was woken in the early hours of the morning.

Dark eyes framed by the unruly mop of curls that she loves so much shine back at her, inky bruises caressing the lower lids. The sharp ridges of his freckled smattered cheekbones are caught with sun spots. His cheeks are smudged with cold, the curve of his mouth quivering with what could be a smile, the soft cleft clinging to his chin caught in a shadow of stubble.

Silently, she laces their hands together, the weight of his fingers falling into her own.

‘I do love you. You know that, don’t you?’

The question is quiet, tentative, the words falling out of his mouth like water dripping from a tap.

Miranda nods, not trusting herself to speak.

A shaky breath catches at her lips as she searches his face, trying to see where this is going.

‘And-‘ He swallows thickly, tries again, reaching with his free hand to cup her cheek, his fingers dancing over her skin.

‘And- I- I’m sorry, mi niña querida. I- I didn’t mean to keep all of it from you. I- I just- I got scared and I didn’t want- I didn’t want you-‘

The words stumble from him, each one an agony of emotion.

‘You didn’t want me to what?’

Gently, she unlaces their hands, holding his gaze.

‘I didn’t want you to- To think any less of me because of it. To think that I wasn’t good enough for you, I- I just-‘

He breaks off, his shoulders slumping, throat working silently.

‘Any less of you? Any _less_ of you? Ben, h-? _How_ could you even think that?’

Miranda has to bite her lip to stop herself from saying any more, the injustice of it all making her blood boil.

‘I dunno- I just-‘

He breaks off helplessly, eyes brimming with pain and grief and her heart breaks at the sight of it.

_How long?_

_How long has he tried to say these things and failed and thought- Believed that-_

Taking his face in her hands, she traces the line of cheek to jaw, and presses a soft kiss against his lips, biting her own against the sudden stab of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

‘Eres un idiota,’ she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his and breathing in his sharp, smoky scent.

‘Am I?’

A breath of a smile catches at his lips and she nods sagely.

‘A great big idiot who can’t see that the people who love him do not care one jot about any of it. We- We care about _you,_ Ben and the person _you_ are. And the light that you-‘

She breaks off, swallowing convulsively, listening to the staccato notes of the rain on the car roof slowly filter out into a washed out sky.

‘The light that you bring to this world. To- To _me!_ God- I- I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t bumped into me during Freshers and I probably wouldn’t have stayed in England if you hadn’t given me reason to. I- I would have run back to Spain and- And spent the rest of my days trapped in a marriage arranged by my- My cerdo de un abuelo and I don’t know-‘

Miranda bites the words back before they rise to a shout, not caring that they have a hint of hysteria to them. Her eyes burn with unshed tears as she turns blindly away to look back at the honeysuckle draping itself over the lintel of the front door.

In the shadows of the passageway, Teresa is leaning on the bannister and calling up the stairs. Antonia lugs the picnic things to the utility cupboard and Miranda sees her stop and tap her Mother on the shoulder, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

_‘I’m right here,_ _Mamá. There’s no need to shout.’_

Ben shakes his head, running a trembling hand through his hair.

‘You’re right,’ he murmurs after a moment and she nods emphatically.

‘I’m an idiot. A- A great, big idiot who can’t see the wood from the trees at the best of times.’ He chuckles weakly, holding her gaze, reaching out to thumb away her tears. 

‘Can you forgive me? For not telling you?’

The questions hang suspended for a long moment.

‘Yes,’ she replies, the word reaching deep into her fractured heart. She isn’t sure of the truths that they hold yet, only that they must be said.

‘Yes, Benito. I think- I think I can.’

* * *

That evening, after supper, they crowd into the living room in a jumble of worn armchairs and the ancient, creaking sofa strewn with tartan rugs. Teresa’s laptop is perched precariously on a pile of fishing manuals, garden magazines, old copies of The Week and The Economist on the coffee table, the moon lifted from the sky and casting the corners of the cosy room in shadow.

‘Not long before little Patrick’s bedtime,’ Richard murmurs ruefully, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantlepiece as he slips an arm around Teresa’s shoulder.

Antonia is sat at their feet, leaning back against her parents’ legs, her face a picture of contentment.

Miranda perches herself on the arm of Ben’s chair, her nose tucked into his curls, hands clasped against his chest.

‘He’ll be here for a bit though, won’t he, Dada?’ Antonia’s eyes are shining as the call button continues to ring and at last crackles into a shaky connection. Miranda imagines it snaking its’ way westward out over the Irish Sea and up into the rocky, salt sprayed streets of Ardara.

‘I’m sure he will be, Antonia,’ Richard assures her as Patrick Harper’s broad, good natured face flickers into view, little Patrick, ready for bed in a pair of dinosaur pyjamas and wet slicked hair already beginning to bounce into curls perched on his lap. His chubby fingers dance for the shadows, yanking down on Harper’s nose. In the background of the Harper kitchen RTE’s Radio 1 is looping through the news and out on the cobbled street, a dog barks, the sound cutting through the quiet.

Behind him, Ramona is folding laundry at the kitchen table, humming softly to herself.

‘Is this thing working?’

Richard grins in reply and Teresa chuckles softly.

‘We can hear and see you if that’s what you mean, Pat.’

A smile cracks across Richard’s mouth as he sits back, lacing his hands behind his head.

A contented sigh from the monitor and Harper settles.

Folding the last piece of laundry, Ramona settles herself next to him, dark eyes glowing, face creased with laughter lines.

‘Nunky!’ The little boy gabbles as he recognises Richard, chubby fingers reaching, dark eyes shining with delight at the faces on the screen.

‘Quite a gathering you’ve got there, sir,’ Patrick grins, winking to Miranda and Antonia. ‘Keeping out of trouble are you Ben? And you Mrs Teresa, keeping well?’

‘We’re grand, Sarge,’ Ben replies, biting on a laugh. ‘How’s the little monster?’

Harper grins, pulling his son further into his lap, tickling him until he squeals and tries to escape.

‘No, Dada! No, tickles!’

From her perch, Antonia sighs, Teresa leaning down to murmur, ‘just like you when you were small,’ into her hair.

With a pang of longing Miranda thinks of her siblings, remembering long winter evenings sat in the living room after supper, watching her Mother take up her mending by lamplight, playing knights and dragons, castles and princesses. Remembers them squealing in delight and terror as they had taken it in turns to play the dragon, the princess locked away in the tower, the gallant knight with a tin foil covered sword who came to rescue her and slay the vicious monster.

‘As well as can be expected, Patrick, with this houseful. Richard’s enjoying the gardening. Ben and Miranda are going back to Winchester on Monday and ‘tonia’s with us for the rest of the week, under the _pretence_ of writing essays,’ Teresa smiles, impervious to Antonia’s silent, incredulous glare. ‘How are you both? How’s the niñito?’

‘Thriving, as you can see,’ Ramona says, her voice ringing with pride.

‘He’s beginning to sleep better. Although I’m not sure what I prefer, alarms about night raids over Bagdad, or baby monitors.’ Harper’s words are dry, rubbing a hand over his face and ignoring a glare from Ramona. Little Patrick gurgles happily, clapping his hands in delight before looking doubtfully at his parents. Richard nods pointedly, reaching for Teresa’s hand. Ben’s shoulders stiffen under Miranda’s palm. Antonia looks away.

‘He’s climbing stairs like a monkey, aren’t you sweetheart? _And_ it’s past your bedtime.’ Taking little Patrick from her husband, Ramona gathers him in her arms, burying her nose in his hair.

‘Da!’ The little boy protests hotly, reaching desperately through his Mother’s arms to Patrick, dark eyes glistening. ‘Not sleepy! Ma! Not sleepy!’

Ramona hushes him, rocking his little body until he quietens. ‘I’ll take him to bed now, Patrick,’ she murmurs over her son’s protests, reaching to touch her husband’s shoulder. ‘I won’t be long. You _are_ sleepy now, aren’t you, dearest boy?’ A defiant shake of the little crop of dark curls and a slow, kitten-like yawn, which makes Teresa laugh and nod in mutual understanding.

‘Go with God little one,’ Miranda hears Patrick murmur as Ramona sees herself out. The thread of Arrorro mi niño reaches them as she climbs the stairs, the words sending a pang of homesickness deep into Miranda’s heart.

‘Harris rang us the other day,’ Harper says after she’s gone, sitting back and lacing his hands behind his head. ‘Sends his love. Says he wants to write a book of all things.’

Ben rolls his eyes in Antonia’s direction and Miranda shushes him, resting her chin in the mess of his curls. 

‘Oh, aye?’ Richard strokes his chin with thumb and forefinger. ‘Does he know the subject yet?’

Harper shakes his head, whistling a breath through his teeth.

‘You know Harris. He’ll go round and round in circles until something wonderful falls into his lap. Good on him though. And you, Ben? How do things stand?’

‘Night classes in Politics, Sarge. Potentially,’ Ben replies, voice bursting with pride. ‘And sketching. Got to keep up with Miranda somehow.’

‘Good lad,’ Harper murmurs with approval, reaching a hand back to take Ramona’s as she settles herself down next to him. ‘Miranda?’

‘A dissertation that’s driving me-‘ She stops, the English word caught between her teeth. ‘ _Loca_?’

‘Round the bend? You poor, poor thing,’ Ramona murmurs sympathetically, caressing her husband’s knuckles with her thumb, dark eyes shining. ‘If you need a break chica, you know where we’re only a phone call away. That goes for you as well Antonia, and you Ben.’

Miranda nods and looks away, her throat suddenly tight with inexplicable emotion.

_How long has she longed for this easy comfort?_

_How long has she longed to not worry about whether what she has said will cause offense or the hard back of a rough hand across her face or worse, one of her siblings, safe in the knowledge that she is loved for who she is? Loved for what she can bring to the world and not for her prospects as a good, childbearing housewife with no aspirations other than the ones set for her by a faceless husband?_

Leaning back, she lets the threads of the conversation lap over her like waves over a pebbled beach. In her minds’ eye, she sees them stitching together, the deep weave of Richard’s bass shot through with the spark of Teresa’s laugh. Harper and Ramona’s voices studded and interchangeable in gales of faulty connection. The cascading thud of Antonia throwing a pillow at Ben.

‘Miranda? Are you all right?’

Ben’s question is soft with concern, bringing her back to the present with a start.

He’s kneeling by the chair, one hand on her knee, the other reaching gently to touch her cheek.

The sitting room is empty, the curtains drawn, Teresa’s laptop cleared away, the magazines left in a confusion of paper on the coffee table. Someone, Richard perhaps, has eased her into the chair proper and tucked a tartan rug over her knees.

‘Ben?’

She blinks blearily, the world slowly slipping back into focus.

‘You looked so comfortable that Dad thought it better to leave you,’ Ben says quietly, scrambling up to perch on the arm of the chair. He’s already in his pyjamas, a moss green wool jersey thrown over the top for warmth.

One hand reaches to trace the line of her cheek, dark eyes glowing with love and worry.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I- I-‘

For a moment words fail her, all the language in the world seeming suddenly inadequate to try and articulate her memories in a way that he will understand.

Wordlessly, she shakes her head, her hands raking through her hair, unravelling hanks of plait through her fingers.

Her own history, her Mother, her siblings, her flesh and blood whom she had last spoken to in the shaken shadows of her uncle’s living room after he had picked her up from the airport, his phone number a scrawled scrap of ink on a much folded envelope corner. Despite herself, she remembers the connection fracturing against her mouth, their voices rising, falling, cutting out into minutes of silence.

Their names float through the darkness behind her eyes. Therese. Mathilde. Sofia. Juan, the son that her Father had longed for, born when she was eleven. Little Aleta who had barely been walking by the time she’d left.

_Does Aleta remember her?_

‘I- I can’t- Not yet- Please don’t ask me, Ben.’

The words are barely words at all, but he nods all the same and wordlessly wraps his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin.

From the passageway, she hears the thud of footsteps, the brief knock of a fist on the door, a quiet retreat.

‘Just hold me, mi querido,’ she whispers, turning her face into his chest.

The warmth of his hands and strength of his heartbeat lull her into hard, exhausted sleep.

* * *

Richard and Antonia see them off at the station on Monday morning.

Sunday had passed too quickly and now Miranda finds herself curled up in one of the only spare seats on the 11:00 train. Ben’s hand is loose in hers, the whispers of farewell brushing against her skin.

_‘It was good to see you, lass,’ Richard had murmured, his gaze dark and endless, holding her in a soft embrace as the train had huffed and screeched against the tracks, the disembarking passengers lost in a sea of humanity. Ben had been teasing Antonia, their voices ringing clear and strong against her skin._

_‘If there’s anything we can do, just ask.’_

_She had nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak._

_The memories of the previous night and Ben bearing her up the stairs towards the spare room, his gaze bright with pain and shared memory, had been almost too much to bear._

_She will have to talk to Ben about it soon. Will have to bear her broken heart and soul to him and unlock the years of memory that she has kept hidden for so long, but she cannot bear to do it now._

_Cannot bear to mar this beautiful, golden time with thoughts of Spain._

_‘Thank you, Richard,’ she had said at last, the words thick in her throat._

_And then Antonia had hugged her, grey-blue eyes burning into her own._

_‘Look after each other,’ she’d whispered, eyes darting to where Ben had been waiting at the carriage doors, squeezing her hand in a soft, tight grip._

She now sits scrolling through her phone in a sea of blue light, drifting in a flood of texts from Mina about meeting up for drinks on Thursday night and Charlie, a boy in her supervision group who has sent her the link to some past exam papers. They are joined by a sea of e-mails from campus and the Penguin Newsletter that she as ignored all weekend that clamour for her attention, tugging her back to Winchester.

Ben rests his head on her shoulder, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles over the back of her free hand.

Slowly, he sits up, gently drawing her face away from her phone.

Dark eyes glow back at her, the breath of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

‘Estoy encantanda de conocerte,’ he whispers as he searches her face, his artist fingers reaching to trace the line of her cheek.

His eyes still hold the ghosts of his nightmares, plunging deep into memories that she has not unlocked yet. Yet despite the darkness there is a brightness to them, a defiant shine to his pupils, a spark of life and hope and love burning bravely against the shadows.

‘I’m pleased to know you too,’ she replies, slipping her phone into the pocket of her jersey and covering his hand with her own.

She does not need to tell him how much she means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	5. Milk and Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected text message forces Miranda to confront ghosts that she has tried to forget and be honest with Ben about her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals quite explicitly with rape, abortion and old, horrible men putting their hands in places where they shouldn't. Please proceed with caution. 
> 
> My heart goes out to each and every one of the men and women who have suffered at the hands of others in this way and I just hope that this chapter does not try to trivialise their experiences.

Miranda wakes to the brush of Ben’s lips against her cheek, a rumour of morning flickering into life behind the curtains. He tastes of dry acid and the lingering notes of the coronation chicken that he’d made for supper, the blade of the knife flashing through the onions like quicksilver.

Sleep still clings to his eyes, blurring his features into shadow. His hair is a birds nest of curls, tousled in the soft light.

‘What-What time is it?’

The question is barely a question, lost in the folds of her pillow, the hum of Radio 4 playing in the kitchen.

Outside, she can hear the click of the next door flat’s front door being pulled to, the heavy tread of shoes on stone.

‘Just after quarter to eight, ‘Randa. We’re out of eggs and the milk went off when we were away. I’ll be back before you know it,’ he murmurs, a tremor of a smile flickering against his lips. One hand reaches down to grip her own, their fingers threading together in a beat of memory.

Slowly, she feels him perch on the corner of the bed, the mattress sagging slightly under his weight.

Pushing herself through the sheets, she sits, one hand reaching to cup his cheek, her fingers dancing over the sparks of freshly shaven skin. His skin sings of soap and fresh towels, but even those cannot mask the pain.

‘You didn’t sleep well last night.’

The words hover between them as she reaches up to brush a curl out of his eyes. With a pang of anguish, she remembers the tender, broken way that Richard had held him as he had thrashed through his nightmares at Birchwood, sweating out memories in a fever of anguish.

Ben shakes his head, swallowing thickly as he looks away, fixing his gaze on the string of fairy lights that Miranda has lopped against the edges of her wall.

‘Just a dream,’ he murmurs, turning back with a whistling breath through his teeth, tucking an inky ringlet back behind her ear.

‘Ben-‘

An eyebrow raised in his direction and he seems to sag, passing a hand over his eyes, an almost invisible tremor passing through his fingers.

_She’d felt him sweat the nightmares out, his back rigid against her chest._

_His hands had been balled into fists against the pillow, his head tucked away from her, whimpered pleas breaking, entwining into her own dreams._

_She’d held him for as long as she could, the edge of his breathing ragged in the room._

_Felt him finally slip out, a shaking shadow trembling into the bathroom, where the sound of dry heaving had echoed through the flat._

‘I’ll- I’ll tell you later, mi querida,’ he murmurs. His fingers linger over the rise of her cheekbones, his own questions rising in the depths of dark pupils.

_Talk to me_ , his eyes seem to say, his fingers trailing off the sheets.

_Trust me._

_Please?_

‘If you’re going to go, please go!’ She murmurs from the pillow, resting her chin on her elbows to watch him pull on his running trainers, the lean muscle of his calves taut against his shorts.

Ben grins in reply- a wide, toothy, guiless grin that makes her heart sing.

‘I’ll be back to give you breakfast before your lecture,’ he assures her from the door, a teasing lilt to his words, and it is all she can do to not throw her pillow at him.

* * *

Slowly, she makes her way through the morning routine, not focused enough to mind what she does, but glad all the same of the mundanity.

The shower gushes hot, steam fogging the screen as she massages her scalp, pulling the tresses of her hair through the shampoo. Slowly, she lets the soap suds slip down her skin, puddling in a pool of white froth at the plughole, exhaling through the hot still air. The water pounds against her shoulders, pummelling feeling back into her breast.

Conditioner drips down her forehead, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut against the sudden sting, remembering how she had helped her Mother bathe her siblings when they were small.

Remembers without meaning to, the weight of chubby arms and legs soft against her hands.

Remembers soap suds clinging to chests and backs and faces, dark eyes glowing, gappy toothed mouths giggling.

_Will she ever see them again?_

_Will she be able to share in the joy of Aletta’s first communion?_

_Will she be the one who clasps the silver crucifix around her neck and whispers streams of blessings into her baby sisters’ hair?_

A choking sob rises in her throat at the memory and she sinks to the floor, her calves folding against the weight of the water, as it slowly runs to cold.

Somehow, she makes her way back to her room and dresses, fingers numb as they pull one of Ben’s old, checked shirts, socks and skimming over the flies and button of dark jeans, her hair an unplaited waterfall of inky blackness dripping down her back.

Mechanically, she reaches for her phone to check if Mina or Rosie have texted to say if the lecture, a question and answer session on exam technique, has been cancelled.

And then, scrolling further, she sees it.

It’s an unknown number, but one that is unmistakably Spanish.

**Therese.**

**Mi querida hermana,**

**Te extraño tanto. ¿Podemos hablar?**

_Therese._

She can’t stop her hands from trembling.

Her little sister who had always wanted to be her shadow.

Her little sister with her freckles smattering across the bridge of her nose, a chicken pox scar just below her left eye.

Her little sister who loved Maths and Physics and, despite their Mother’s best intentions, hated cooking.

Her little sister whose mind is a livewire, jumping from point to point, question to conclusion in a matter of seconds, who could do so much if given the chance.

Her little sister who would run off to the public library with her as soon as they were old enough to navigate the road and curl up reading back issues of the National Geographic and the New Yorker, letting themselves be transported to places far away from the dusty, Spanish heat.

The phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, landing on the bed.

Her breath comes shallow, her lungs suddenly airless and suddenly she’s back in her childhood kitchen.

_Back with her back bruised and aching from being thrown against a chair, a low, throbbing ache pulsing through her eyes, her face screaming from the force of his hand._

_Back to when she was thirteen, when her budding breasts were beginning to peep out from under her tops and a rush of blood flowed between her legs every month._

_Back trying to keep out of reach of a wandering hand, an inappropriate comment that she hadn’t been able to decipher._

_Dark, drink-glazed eyes leering out at her as she had tried to do her homework._

_Then, as she got older, he had tried to corner her in dark spaces, rounding on her whenever a rage took him, her body a punching bag for his own pain._

_‘Ven aquí chica. Déjame mirarte.’_

_Then again, in broken, drink-slurred English that had made her stomach flip with fear. A knurled finger crooked in command, the back of her hands drenched in sweat._

_‘Come here girl. Let me look at you.’_

_The weight of his hands running over her breasts, his breath drenched in nicotine._

She hadn’t known what she’d done.

It could have been anything.

Back listening to Therese and Mathilde begging him to stop when he hit her, their cries drifting in and out of earshot as she had curled further and further away from him, unable to do anything to evade the hammer blows of his fists.

Back listening to her parents arguing when she should have been asleep, their voices cutting through the quiet like crickets on a summers’ night.

‘ _I don’t know why you let him get away with it! She’s a good girl, a clever, articulate girl, why shouldn’t she be allowed the opportunities other girls have?’_

Back tasting the warm, iron bitterness of blood pulsing against her teeth and she can’t breathe-

‘Miranda? You all right?’

_I –_

_I don’t-_

The creak of a floorboard, the thud of the front door closing is lost in a choking sob.

A hand tentatively reaching for her shoulder, his palm a warm, solid anchor to which she tries to cling onto. 

Ben’s sharp, smoky scent is mingled with sweat and cool morning dampness and she buries her head in her hands, unable to stop her shoulders from shaking. He says nothing, just continues to hold her as she cries, tucking her head into his chest, his chin resting in her hair.

‘I’ve got milk, eggs, _two_ avocados and we were out of bread when I looked, so I got a loaf. Will that do?’

A weak, wet laugh bubbles in her throat and she slowly pulls herself out of his arms.

‘Thanks Ben.’ The words are a wet, cold whisper.

Dark eyes shine back at her, love and worry tugging at every corner of his being.

Gingerly, she stands and sways, the world swimming until he grips her elbow and steers her towards the kitchen.

The morning that breaks in increments through the windows is clouded, soft rays of white sun hesitantly breaking into shards of cool, white light.

The kitchen surfaces smell of Flash and Dettol and she watches without really taking it in as he busies himself pulling out cutlery, finding plates and firing up the gas for a frying pan.

Her phone burns in the pocket of her jeans, its’ secrets screaming things that she knows that she will have to tell him. Knows that she can’t forget.

_How can life still be so normal when her world, the world that she has tried so hard to ignore is encroaching on the happiness that she has strived for so long to build?_

Through numb eyes, she watches Ben crack eggs into the hot pan, their whites crisping at the edges.

‘Here,’ he says at last, passing her a plate of fried egg and chopped avocado on toast, his hand lingering for a moment against her own.

Outside, she can hear the children from the house opposite their flat scrambling out of their front door, their Mother pushing backpacks and sandwiches into their hands as they rush off to school. Her stomach is empty and yet the thought of food is almost too much to bear as she pushes her plate away, corners of egg white curling brown and crisp against her fork.

The scrape of a chair against lino.

‘Mi querida? What’s up?’

She feels him reach across the table for her hand, the warm weight of his thumb working against her knuckles.

‘I-‘

The words that she knows she must say are stuck in her throat, burning against her tongue.

The silence swells and she looks away, biting her lip until she tastes blood.

‘I’ve had a text from my sister,’ she says at last, the words sounding distant and not at all her own.

‘She- She misses me- She wants to talk and-‘

Her eyes are stinging, burning away the mists of memory.

Around them, the house seems to sigh, the pipes above their heads inhaling heavily, steadying themselves for an assault that she doesn’t know if she wants to engage in.

‘And?’

His voice is gentle, quiet in the silence, his thumb pulling deep contours against her skin.

‘I- I don’t know how she got my number, if my uncle gave it to her, or- I don’t know if my Father, if my Grandfather, if they know- I- I’m frightened, Ben!’

She can feel her voice breaking, her courage failing as Ben gets up from his chair and draws her into his arms, tucking her face into his chest.

‘Miranda.’

His voice is barely a whisper, his thumb and forefinger lightly touching her chin as he searches her face, dark eyes soft with sorrow.

It is a long moment before he speaks, his free hand squeezing hers.

‘You- You are the bravest person I know. I- I wish you could see that.’

* * *

They walk in silence through Keats’ Park on the way to campus. Walk past the usual throng of dog walkers and young, harried Mothers with squawking toddlers and babies in pushchairs.

Businessmen in well pressed suits and wet slicked hair push past without a backward glance as they run to meetings with cheap, takeaway cups of coffee in plastic cups clasped in cold hands.

Ben has a sketch pad and pencils in his rucksack, Miranda her laptop and notes for her dissertation supervisor, an apology to Mina and a plea for the notes sent on her phone.

Mina.

They’d met on the first day of the previous semesters fresher’s week, sipping hot chocolate and a grainy expresso in a Starbucks far away from campus and the bedlam of eighteen-year-olds dancing through foam parties and pub crawls.

Mina had gold beads tucked into tight cornrows, and her smile was an infectious light in a foreign country. Her Mother was the head of Admin for a small, all-female theatre company in Accra, her Father a diplomat. Miranda had shuddered over the warmth of her mug, fingers moving instinctively to the warmth of the crucifix’s lines and bends that rested in the pit of her throat and struggled to think in English. 

Slowly, she had let parts of her past, fractured and bloody, drip from her lips. She had savoured her present, wrapped up in Ben’s arms, his touch then a thousand miles away in Basra. Had reminisced over the soft warmth of Birchwood Cottage and Antonia’s smile that is so like Richard’s, the water-bright reflection of a rainbow arced over the sea.

The cherry blossoms are out, soft pinks and whites blooming against dark bark, the sun dappling bravely through beech leaves. The light is damp and speckled with colour and she lets Ben lead her to one of the benches overlooking the ironworked bridge over the Itchen, his hand soft and gentle in hers.

They sit for a long while, letting the world slip and slide on its long and winding way around them. Ben has his sketchbook open in his lap, a pencil resting between thumb and forefinger as he assesses the bridge in a cross hatch of line and shadow.

‘My Grandfather-‘

The words are hesitant in the quiet and Miranda keeps her gaze focussed on her hands, knowing that if she looks up, she’ll falter.

Ben folds the book closed, the pencil resting against her index finger.

‘When I was younger, I- I was about thirteen I think and my Grandfather used to come into the kitchen when I was doing my homework and-‘

‘He’d- He’d touch me in places I was just discovering-‘

She shudders at the memory and tries to keep talking.

_The memory of knurled hands reaching to flick up the hem of a dark blue school skirt, reaching deep within the darkness that she had no idea existed until recently._

_‘¿Cuándo te volviste tan bonita?’_

_Dark eyes raking her body up and down from the corner of the kitchen as she had sat at her books, scrubbed carrots, reached up to the top shelf of the store cupboard for olive oil, judging her like a horse for sale._

_When did you become so pretty?_

_The memory of a hand reaching over her mouth to stop her from crying out._

_The sudden jolt of pain that had sliced into the pit of her stomach and down her legs until she had barely been able to stand._

_The heady odour of sweat and musk and heat and car oil clinging deep into his palms._

_‘Pipa abajo chica. Tus padres pueden escuchar. No quieres eso, ¿verdad?_

_His voice hard and husky with lust, breath hot and rank against her ear._

_And she had shaken her head, squeezing her eyes shut against hot tears, gagging against the weight of his hand, willing for it to stop._

‘Didn’t- Didn’t your parents find out? A- A teacher? A nurse? Your sisters? Surely someone must have noticed!’

Ben’s voice seems to come from a long way off and she flinches at its’ hardness.

_Ben,_ she thinks desperately, biting her lip as she watches the wide, brown eyes darken with anger at something he cannot change, wishing she could agree with him. Wishing she could tell him that yes, that was exactly what happened.

_Ben, you would take the whole world in your hands and hold it if you could. You would take in all the waifs and strays and give them a home as you were given. Not all of us have that luxury._

It had gone on and off for four years, until she was seventeen.

‘My-‘

She swallows thickly, tries again, the words cold and colourless against her tongue.

‘My Mother- My Mother suspected. She called the social services when I started gaining weight and skipping school, but when they sent a social worker my Grandfather- My Grandfather threatened to throw me out if I told them what- What was really going on and then-‘

_And then she had finally escaped on the evening when her Grandfather had blacked her eyes and thrown her against a wall for some inconsequential mistake, roaring that she was nothing more than a dirty little slut._

_She had slipped into her Father’s study when the house was asleep, each creak of the floorboards making her heart leap in terror. The key to the safe had been in his desk drawer, the bundles of crisp Euro bills utterly terrifying between her fingers. Her passport had been tucked into the pocket of her coat. A pregnancy test that had been bought under the counter at the local pharmacy had been hidden at the bottom of her purse, burning the weight of her transgression deep into her skin_

_She had sat at the kitchen table and written a note to her Mother and siblings, scrabbling through the address book for her uncle’s name, phone number and an unknown English postcode, scribbled on the corner of an envelope. Letting herself out by the back door under a star-studded Spanish night, she had walked to the bus stop in the shadows of streetlamps to catch the last bus to Madrid, keeping her head down and a hand on her crucifix, hoping that the shadows would hide the worst of the damage._

_Had finally found herself standing alone, exhausted and shivering in a phone box outside City Airport, her fingers numb as they had fed in strange coins and listened to the fractured static of the connecting line._

_On a street corner in Feltham listening to her uncle muttering obscenities against his Father as he had unlocked the front door and ushered her inside the little red bricked Mews house that was to be her home for the next three years._

_At eight weeks pregnant, she had sat in an examining room at Ashford Hospital cradling her growing belly and hating herself. Had been examined by an Irish nurse with a soft accent, grey-blue eyes and a crop of blonde curls creeping under a cap. Her name badge had read Maggie O’Brian._

_‘You poor wee thing,’ she’d murmured as she had marked something off her clipboard, prescribed the pills and, with a soft squeeze to Miranda’s shoulder told her that she would make an appointment for her to see a gynaecologist for a check-up appointment in a week’s time._

_‘If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call us. You’re not the first and you’re not the last. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’_

Ben is shaking his head, raking a hand through his hair.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

The question is soft and sad in the quiet and doesn’t require an answer because Miranda doesn’t think she can and knows he knows why. It is all she can do to shake her head, willing herself not to cry. His hand rests gently over hers, the ridge of his thumbnail working into her knuckles.

‘I told Teresa,’ she manages at last, watching through sightless eyes as a golden Labrador bounds into the river after a tennis ball and sees him raise an eyebrow. The clouds scurry over the sky, dipping and falling over the city. A Winchester College rowing team, all arms and legs and Lycra, pull up the river in a stream of shouting. A family tumble out of the National Trust gift shop and Miranda realises that she’s missed her meeting.

‘The first time that you invited me to Birchwood Cottage. Teresa- Teresa said she’d do what she could to bring him into the Spanish courts for trial. I- I think-‘

Ben’s eyes are glistening as he nods, holding her gaze.

Slowly, wordlessly, he rests his forehead against her own and cups a hand behind her head.

Calloused fingers lace themselves in her hair, his eyes dark with shadows, his own demons rising up to join her own.

_There’s hope,_ his gaze says as flocks of city pigeons whirl and dance around them in a bluster of dusty browns, whites and grey. _Determined, stubborn, bull headed hope._

That evening they slow dance through the living room, Ben’s record player looping its’ way through Edith Piaf. As the sun dies in a blaze of fire over the skyline, Miranda finally allows herself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
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> Much love, 
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	6. Mending Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda tries to reconnect with her sister and finds solace in the safety of her extended family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have happened without the help of CaptainKiran and her wonderful analysis regarding Teresa in the previous chapter- thank you!

It’s not until a few evenings later, when she has put her dissertation aside and Ben is at his Politics class, that Miranda curls up on the sofa and calls Teresa.

The light from the streetlamp outside their flat plays in soft, orange lit shadows through the windows, a sagging football lying forgotten in the opposite garden.

Outside the flat, she hears the rhythmic thud of a ball being kicked against the wall by a group of teenagers on their Easter holidays. For a moment, the wail of a police siren crossing the Itchen slices the night and then all is quiet.

Teresa picks up the phone on the second ring and Miranda hears the hum of male voices. Richard’s Yorkshire base is mixed with another that’s deeper, more modulated before a murmured- ‘it’s Miranda, Richard. I’ll take it. No- No William, sit down and finish up- I won’t be a moment,’ floating down the line.

A beat of silence, the soft tread of footsteps and the click of a door opening, the quiet thud of it being pulled to.

‘Miranda.’

Teresa’s voice is soft and home and safety all in one and Miranda imagines her sat on the sagging living room sofa with her laptop open on the coffee table, a mug of black coffee beside a clean notepad with a fountain pen lying across it.

‘Como esta querida?’

Miranda’s breath is shaking, as she squeezes her eyes shut, willing her shattered self to not fall apart.

‘Estoy bien, gracias,’ she murmurs, the lie feeling grey and hard on her tongue. In her minds’ eye she can see Teresa’s silence, the slight arch to her eyebrows, the set of her mouth hardening.

‘Really?’

The question is spoken kindly, the gentle persuasion forming a lump in Miranda’s throat that she can’t swallow.

‘No,’ she whispers, her voice cracking on the syllable, and she has to blink against the sudden tears.

Outside the window, a party of lads in their twenties are weaving their way drunkenly through the spring evening, their singing off key and echoing.

‘Darling,’ Teresa murmurs, her voice catching slightly and for a fleeting moment Miranda wishes that Ben were here- the longing for the warmth and strength of his hand holding hers suddenly unbearable.

‘What is it?’

‘My- My sister Therese texted me a few days ago,’ she begins, each word faltering against her tongue.

‘I don’t know how- How she got my phone number or if- If my abuelo put her up to it and he’s trying to get to me through her and I want- I want to contact her, but I-‘

She breaks off, her tongue stumbling wordlessly over the English words. Her chest is heaving, silent, unwanted sobs (hasn’t she cried enough over the last few days?) caught in her throat, making it impossible to breathe.

_Without warning, she remembers standing in the kitchen of Birchwood Cottage on that first evening, trembling under the scrutiny of the soft spotlights. She’d been fragile, bloody and broken and Teresa had held her in a tight embrace for a long time after she had told her._

_Remembers the silent tremble of the older woman’s fingers as she had carded them through her hair, each stroke saying more than words ever could._

_‘You are not alone in this. No one has to be alone in this.’_

‘All right,’ Teresa murmurs now, her voice simultaneously treading the line between business-like and soothing effortlessly.

‘Miranda, mi querida, I need you to breathe. I’ve got your case notes here. I was reviewing them this afternoon and trying to see what else I’ve missed.’

Miranda hears her tuck the phone against the crook of her shoulder, the rustle of paper, the whir of a laptop starting up.

‘It may be that it’s just your sister wanting contact with you, that she just wants to talk and that- That is allowed. But there was an explicit no-contact order with any of you when your Grandfather was first brought before a judge,’ Teresa says, each word sharp between her teeth. ‘And if what you’re saying what I think you’re saying is true, Miranda, it means that he’s breached it.’

‘What do I do?’

The question sounds small and childish in the silence.

Teresa’s pen taps against her notepad.

Outside the flat she hears the thud of footsteps and Ben whistling tunelessly through his teeth.

‘Reply to her. I- I know it’s hard but try to be as impersonal as you can. If she mentions anything about him, forward it to me and I’ll deal with it. I would try to get a hold of your uncle as well. I don’t know how much contact he has with his extended family-‘

‘It’s not a lot,’ Miranda replies, remembering how her uncle’s anger had turned insular as they had sat in the soft, orange glow of his kitchen clasping mugs of tea and watched a cool, grey dawn slowly splatter itself against the windows.

At the other end of the phone, Teresa makes a soothing cluck through her teeth.

It’s going to be all right. I’ve got your testimony recorded, so you won’t have to go through that again.’

A weak, wet chuckle bubbles in Miranda’s throat. The memory of the interview room at Feltham Police Station- all grey, concrete walls plastered with chipped, cream paint and blacked out doors, two DC’s sitting across a plain table with a tape recorder and notepads, Teresa’s hand resting lightly against her own - is one that she would rather forget.

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs.

‘Who have you got staying? I- I heard voices in the kitchen-?’

Teresa murmurs a laugh.

‘William Lawford. He’s one of Richard’s fellow officers- They’ve known each other since they were starting out in the Green Jackets. I’ve left them sipping whisky sours and reminiscing about the old days. Is Ben around?’

She’s about to reply, when the warmth of calloused hands pull over her shoulders and Ben’s nose buries itself beneath her ear.

‘Is that Mum?’

His voice is a murmur that is caught around a smile and she nods, passing him the phone.

‘Mum, it’s Ben. Hi.’ His voice is soft and easy and Miranda wonders, as she watches him move slowly about the living room, nodding and murmuring, bursting into a sudden snort of laughter, his hand half way through his hair and muttering ‘bloody hell,’ under his breath, how long it took for him to be able to call Teresa that.

_How old was he when the word came naturally, not shrouded with guilt and horror and grief?_

She’d never thought to ask.

‘Miranda? Are you sure? Mamá, are you sure that’s wise? I- I mean- _Yes,_ we’d love to come over -‘

He breaks off and she feels his gaze lingering on her, searching in silent questions.

‘All right, I’ll talk to her. Send my love to Dad and ‘tonia. Shall I pass you back to Miranda? OK. Bye, Mum. Love you too. Bye.’

Wordlessly he passes the phone back to Miranda, and perches on the arm of the sofa.

‘Miranda? Are you still there?’

Teresa’s voice is softer now and Miranda leans back against the cushions, eyes flicking up to Ben and back again.

‘Yes, I’m still here. What were you discussing with Ben?’

‘Only that if you’re free next weekend, we’d love to have you to stay, mi querida. Antonia won’t be here- she’s got parties and student things that I _can’t miss Mum._ ’ Teresa’s voice sounds uncannily like her daughter’s and Miranda laughs despite herself, imagining the younger girl’s grey eyed glare of utter betrayal.

‘I can pick you up from the station if you like. If you’ve got any questions, I’m always here.’

_If you’ve got any questions._

And suddenly there’s a lump in her throat, all the questions in the world racing and tumbling and screaming against her suddenly useless tongue.

_Why?_

_Why now?_

_Why did she have to contact me now?_

‘It’s all right.’

Ben’s hands seem to come out of nowhere, gently taking the phone away and holding her as he says goodbye to Teresa.

His touch is steady as she tries to pull herself together, tries to breathe.

Fails miserably at both and wants to cry again but doesn’t think she has enough tears left in her to do so.

‘You’re just saying that, Benito. It’s not all right though. Is it?’

He shakes his head, resting his chin on her shoulder.

‘No,’ he agrees at last, laying the phone on the arm of the sofa and holding her gaze, his eyes soft and sad as they search her face.

‘She’s your sister. Whatever happens, you’ve still got that.’ 

* * *

The following afternoon, when Miranda doesn’t want to spend another hour in the library, she plucks up the courage to text Therese.

Ben is spending the afternoon in the flat, sat at the living room desk with a sketchbook and Shirley Bassey on the record player, the evening sun dappling through the windows.

Drying her soap-sudded hands on a tea towel, she watches the pencils fly across the page, the strokes blurred in a maze of lines and hatches, the lights and shadows of a landscape criss-crossed with waterways flying out of the lead.

‘Is that-?’

She breaks off and watches him sit back, the pencil poised between thumb and forefinger.

‘That’s Basra,’ he murmurs, a tone of wistful memory caught in his voice as he looks up at her. ‘The Basra I knew when I was small. During ceasefires, Daya and Dad used to take me down for a week’s holiday. It- The water-‘ He shakes his head in disbelief, running a hand over his face.

‘I don’t think I ever got used to it. Seeing it bombed and knowing we had a part in destroying something that was so- So special. I- I just- It didn’t make sense. I want to remember it as it was. As they would have remembered it. D’you know what I mean?’

Miranda can only shake her head as she cups his face in her hands and strokes the lines of his cheekbones, her heart filled with overwhelming tenderness.

‘I don’t know,’ she murmurs, letting her thumb fall into the pits of his cheeks. ‘But I do know that your parents- your birth parents and Richard and Teresa- They’re proud of you, Ben.’

‘As are yours. Or they should be, if they had any sense.’

His tone is rueful, dark eyes flicking up to meet hers in question and she smiles a tight, small smile in reply.

Her phone burns in her pocket and retrieving it she unlocks the screen, her fingers trembling against the keys.

Ben’s eyes flick from the phone to her face and back again, silently reaching for her hand, his thumb working gently over her knuckles.

Together, they move to the sofa, Miranda unable to stop herself from shaking.

The words seem to come with agonising slowness, each one an agony of endurance. 

**Miranda**

**Hola Therese,**

‘Why is this so hard? She’s my sister!’

The words are bitten out in frustration and Ben shakes his head, resting his chin on her shoulder.

As she types, Teresa’s instructions float over her fingers, searing themselves into her soul.

_‘I- I know it’s hard but try to be as impersonal as you can.’_

**Es Miranda ¿Cómo estás?**

**Yo también te extraño. ¿Cómo están mamá y los pequeños? Estoy muy bien. ¿Cómo van tus estudios?**

‘What’s she studying?’

Ben’s question is a breath in the silence.

‘When we were younger, she wanted to be a mathematician and find an equation that would make men see that all girls were deserving of a good education. She wanted to invent reading technology for the boy in her class that struggled to speak. She- She wanted to travel the world and see so many places and do so many things and live and be so much more than what our Grandfather thought was suitable for a girl-‘

Miranda’s voice breaks, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, blurring the screen.

‘She- She wanted to escape Ponferrada and our convent school and we’d read the _New Yorker_ and the _National Geographic_ and plan for when we were older. I remember her announcing at supper on her ninth birthday that she was going to save up her pocket money and her birthday money and go to America- I-‘

Despite herself, Miranda chuckles at the memory.

_She’d just turned eleven and Juan had been a baby in their Mother’s arms._

_Therese had sat at the kitchen table, her hair an inky, unravelling waterfall down her back, her eyes gleaming as she had laid down her knife and fork and announced to the table that she was going to go to Madrid to petition Felipe Gonzalez to make school more affordable._

_How she wanted to start saving to go to Washington DC to help the politicians and educators get all children, regardless of class, gender or how whether their parents could pay the school fees, into education._

_That she would march up to the White House, knock on the door of the Oval Office and demand that the President see her, little Therese Desoto with her school plaits, her satchel and a determined glint in her eyes, her mind whirring with ideas._

The row between their parents and grandfather had been one that Miranda wishes she could forget.

**Mucho amor,**

**Miranda**

Slowly, painfully, she presses send and sits back, the image of her bright eyed, sharp witted sister burning behind her eyes, her throat suddenly tight.

Her lungs feel cold and empty, Ben’s chin on her shoulder the only thing keeping her from running to her room, shutting the door and throwing herself onto her bed.

‘What did Teresa say about us going to stay at Birchwood?’

The question is loud in the quiet and Ben scrambles down to sit beside her, one arm draped around her shoulder. The brush of three day stubble prickles her cheek, his weight a steady comfort to a tortured heart.

‘Next weekend,’ he murmurs.

‘They don’t have anyone staying, although Harris may drop in and use the living room as a writing room for a bit. We- We can go for walks on the beach, go up to the woods behind the church.’

His voice trails off and she nods, her mind not in Essex, but in Spain. In her minds’ eye, she’s kneeling on the floor in her childhood bedroom, scrabbling for clothes to stuff into a rucksack. Therese had watched her in desperate silence from the doorway, her eyes saying more than any words ever could.

‘ _Why do you have to go?’_

_‘I- I can’t stay here,_ _mi querida. Not- Not whilst he’s here. I- I’m-‘_

She’s lost on a bus that had rumbled its’ way through a star-studded night. Each town that they reached had been a lurch in her heart, each passenger taking on the form of her father coming to drag her off and throw her back into a life of hell.

The buzz of a text coming in jolts her back to the present with a start.

‘Is it-?’

Ben’s question is barely a whisper, the hand on her shoulder tightening its grip and Miranda nods, hardly daring to breathe.

Her brain seems to have slowed down, the Spanish unfurling itself into spiels of unintelligible nonsense before her eyes.

**Therese**

**Hola Miranda**

**Me da gusto oir de tí. No sabía si tenía el número correcto. Mamá y los pequeños están bien. Sofía comienza la escuela secundaria en septiembre y celebramos la primera comunión de Alleta en marzo. He comenzado a estudiar Matemáticas en la universidad para gran molestia del abuelo. Él te ha estado buscando. No te preocupes, no le he dicho nada. No creo que él sepa dónde estás, pero está muy enojado con la citación judicial que sigue viniendo de Madrid. Él no cree que yo lo sepa, pero yo sí. Mamá sigue pidiéndole que pare, pero no lo hará. Es horrible.**

**Te extraño. Todos nosotros te extrañamos.**

**Mucho amor,**

**Therese**

Letting the phone slip from her fingers and tumble to the floor, Miranda swallows thickly, exhaling a ragged, shaking breath and tries not to cry.

* * *

April is slowly slipping into May when they find themselves heading out of Winchester towards the sea.

The last week has passed in a blur of memories that, looking back as she sits on a commuter train to Asheldham, Miranda realises that she has taken nothing from them.

On Thursday evening, Mina had invited them to drinks at her flat, down on the riverside. It was an evening of standing in a too small living room packed with people, a fug of cigarette smoke hanging lazily on the air as the smokers used the back door.

Ben had watched her with worried eyes from across the room, hands dug deep in the pockets of his jeans as he had tried to talk to Charlie who Miranda knew has no idea about the war in Iraq, or what Ben’s reality had been for the last few years.

‘They don’t understand,’ he murmurs now, as the train slowly weaves its’ way East, his gaze distant as the towns slowly slip into fields and high hedges soft with the last fragments of honeysuckle. Far on the horizon, the sea is a thin, blue line, hazy under cloud. Their tickets tumble against each other against a tangle of headphones and charging cables, two take away Costa cups catching cold dregs in the stillness.

‘Sometimes I don’t either and I live with you,’ she replies, reaching up to brush a fallen curl out of his eyes, a flicker of a smile dancing against her lips.

‘You’re trying though,’ he says quietly, turning back to her with a sad smile reaching for her hand. ‘And you haven’t given up on me yet, even though-‘

_Trying,_ Miranda thinks sadly, returning his grip and squeezing gently as the train clatters its’ way into a tunnel.

_Trying to understand when she holds him at night until he stops shaking, silent screams bitten into his pillow._

_Trying to understand the language of the long pauses when he’s on the phone to Patrick Harper or Dan Hagman, or Harris, or even Richard._

‘How can they? For most of Mina’s friends all they know about the war is what they’ve seen on TV or read about when angry Guardian journalists write in the newspapers. The war isn’t real to them anymore, Ben.’

Gently, Miranda reaches over to trace the line of his cheek, her fingers falling against the ridge of his cheekbone. His skin trembles under her touch, his dark eyes glistening.

Teresa meets them in the station carpark as the evening light begins to fade, a knee length dark tweed coat with a duck-green velvet collar thrown over her work suit. Dusty Springfield’s velvet chords roll out of the rolled down window on the battered stereo system. Her eyes are soft with love, her hair tumbling out of its’ bun as she wordlessly gathers them both into a tight hug.

Beside her, Miranda feels Ben’s shoulders slump as he steps into his Mother’s arms, her touch home and love and safety all combined.

‘Todo está bien,’ Teresa murmurs to no one in particular, her hand resting against Miranda’s cheek for a long moment, the fingers of her other hand threading their way through Ben’s curls. ‘Richard’s cooking tonight and Harris is coming in the morning. We’ll be fine.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	7. Small Islands of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda and Ben find comfort and hope in the song of the sea and in the memories of those they have left behind

Birchwood Cottage’s kitchen is still the softly lit haven that Miranda remembers.

Ben shoulders their bags with a murmured, ‘tell Dad I’ll be down in a moment,’ and tramps upstairs, his eyes shining at being home again.

Richard is at the stove with an apron tied over a checked shirt and dark trousers, whistling through his teeth as he ladles caramelised red onions onto sausages, tipping the remaining juices into a gravy boat. A saucepan full of vivid root vegetable mash seasoned with darting rosemary sprigs sits on the warming plate, steamed Swiss Chard seasoned with sea-salt and black pepper waiting at the back of the hob.

Elton John’s _Rocket Man_ hums through the radio, the table already laid for four. The Delft vase with the scenes of the Piazza San Marco is filled with midnight blue and white delphiniums sat in pride of place in the middle of the table, flanked by two candlesticks.

‘We’re home Richard,’ Teresa murmurs as she hangs her coat on the hook behind the door and drops the car keys in the small pottery bowl painted with brightly yellow sunflowers. Ben had told Miranda that it had been one of Antonia’s prized possessions from primary school when she was nine and has been the custodian of car keys ever since.

She cannot help but smile as she watches Richard turn from the hob, his weathered face breaking into a grin as he takes Teresa into his arms.

‘It’s good to see you, Miranda. Good journey?’ He murmurs, his eyes twinkling as Teresa reaches up to thumb a smudge from his cheek, extracting herself from his arms to turn the gas hob low and find bread boards for the table.

‘Very quiet,’ she replies, exhaling a long breath, tucking herself into a chair. ‘Ben nearly made us late by thinking that he’d lost the tickets, but-‘

She breaks off to the sound of thundering footsteps down the backstairs and the reappearance of Ben.

‘I did what? What lies are being slandered against me, Dad?’

The question is a demand as he finds a water jug, crosses the room and nestles it under the tap. His eyes are bright with smiles, the light that has flickered there burning into life.

Richard grins, leaning over to ruffle the crop of dark curls.

‘Only that you nearly missed your train, according to Miranda. There’s beer in the larder if you want it, lad.’

‘Thanks Dad. D’you want some mi querida?’

Nodding in answer to his question, Miranda cannot help but laugh, watching him set the water jug down and hurry into the larder, emerging seconds later with two bottles of Innis and Gunn. The beer is dark and hoppy, searing feeling into her throat.

From the sideboard, Teresa leans back, arms folded, and eyebrows raised, a small smile playing at her lips. With a flourish, Richard bears the steaming casserole dishes of sausages and mash to the table, the gravy glistening with red wine and tendrils of opague onion as it swirls around the gravy boat.

‘It’ll get cold if you don’t eat!’

Richard’s face is all smiles, letting light and warmth and love flood the room that she had thought she’d lost for good.

Outside the kitchen window the last tendrils of honeysuckle whisper against the glass and the church bell strikes eight; the mournful echoes reverberating across the village. Out in the woods, the night is pierced by an owl’s screech.

And then the warm weight of Ben’s hand is reaching for hers, his bottle clinking against her own. His eyes are shining, the hand that holds her own feeling looser, the coiled wire tension that she has seen sprung up inside him for so long slowly beginning to ebb.

_‘¡Salud!’_

Conversation slips easily across the table, mingled with the scrape of knives and forks against plates, the murmur of questions, the clink of glasses, the glug of liquid.

Miranda sits back, half listening to tales of Antonia as a toddler and Teresa’s stories about her latest client, the wife of a Russian oligarch whose money came by dubious means from Moscow and Petersburg. According to Teresa, she was filing for a divorce and adultery after finding him in bed with their children’s young, blonde, high cheekboned, Swedish nanny who could have been his daughter.

‘There’s so little love in these families, ‘Teresa murmurs, tearing her bread in half and using it to mop her remaining gravy, swirls of juice catching in the crust.

‘Their money is everywhere! It’s in their houses in perfect SW1 neighbourhoods, in their clothes, in their personal hairdressers who come twice a week at midday to give their blonde locks just the smallest touch up. Dios mío, it’s even in the way they send their children off too young to a boarding school in Surrey and never bother to see them! They paint their kitchens perfectly white and chrome and hang an original Picasso _just so,_ and employ a Polish cleaner to water their potted plants! And yet when I asked her what she wanted for her children, she shrugged and said it didn’t matter! That she wants to keep the children where they are to stop their studies being disrupted-‘

Crumbling the rest of her bread into her napkin, Teresa slips into a clipped, English accent, drawling out her vowels perfectly. Ben buries his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving with laughter.

‘If you must know, _da-arling,_ Sophia is getting on so well in International Relations and is sitting on a perfect A* for Physics and I’m told that she’s ready to try and get her ponies out to compete at international level this year and so I just _can’t_ drag her all the way out to Moscow right now. She’ll stay exactly where she is, and I’ll write to her.’

At the head of the table, Richard is shaking his head in disbelief, pushing his chair back to clear the plates and Ben has to take a large swig out of his water glass and swallow quickly to stop choking on his laugh.

‘Bloody idiots, the lot of them,’ Richard mutters and Miranda cannot help but think of some of the girls that she had known in the convent school.

_Girls whose Fathers owned great swathes of real estate in Madrid and Barcelona, thinking nothing of slipping their daughters €100 bills on their birthdays. Whose Mothers spent their money on handbags and manicures, stepping out of a sleekly black chauffer driven Mercedes Benzes at the end of term, swathed in crisp, white linen Armani trouser suits and towering heels._

_Girls that did not have to come home to a Grandfather who leered across the kitchen table at them, whose hands knew her body in ways that she despised._

_Girls that had eyed her up in the corridor when she had been forced to run out of her Catalan Literature class, dressed in jeans and baggy shirts that had she had tried to tuck into her jeans or belt up to hide the swell of her stomach. The fire in her mouth as it had burnt with bile in the safety of the girls’ toilets, their judgements full of silent spite._

‘Hey.’

Teresa’s voice is a murmur, her touch gentle against her hand.

Her eyes are dark with concern, her other hand reaching over to trace the line of Miranda’s cheek.

‘You OK?’

She blinks and tries to nod, unable to put any of it into words just yet.

‘Darling,’ Teresa murmurs, reaching to stroke the line of Miranda’s cheek. Wordlessly, she flicks her gaze to Ben who is watching them curiously from the fridge, balancing a stack of pudding bowls on one hand, a bowl of fresh raspberries and a jug of cream from the local dairy in the other.

‘You are not the product of his actions, Miranda. I know that, Richard knows that, Ben knows that. Y _ou_ are loved, _mi querida._ So much. Please don’t forget that.’

She has to blink to keep the tears at bay.

* * *

The next morning dawns in flecks of rain-soaked washes, a weak sun dappling over the dark oak beams of the spare bedroom.

The house wakes slowly, unfurling itself in the creak of a floorboard, the groan of pipes, the running of taps and the hum of the Today program filtering down the passage from Richard and Teresa’s bedroom.

A short knock at Miranda’s door pulls her groggily from groggy half-wakefulness. Ben’s hair swims before her eyes, towled into curling spikes that makes her chuckle. He is still in his pyjamas with a dark blue jersey thrown over the top, his feet looking bare and strange against the dark grain of the floorboards. There is a mug of tea in each hand (black with one sugar for her, full and milky with an extra tea bag for him) and he has to edge the door closed with his foot, weaving perilously through the cramped space to the bed.

Miranda can’t help but smile from her nest of blankets as she watches him wobble theatrically on one leg before finding his footing again and perching on the edge of the bed.

‘You’re cold! Get off!’

The exclamation is muffled into her pillow as she kicks out through the duvet and there is a flash of a grin as he places her tea on the nightstand, cradling his own.

‘And a good morning to you too,’ he murmurs, reaching with his free hand to trace the line of her cheek. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Just about,’ she hears herself reply, the threads of her dreams curled in the corners of her conscious, the strands too knotted and confused to put into words just yet.

‘And you?’

Pushing herself up against her pillows, Miranda cradles her own tea, letting the mug’s warmth seep through her skin.

‘Muchas gracias,’ she murmurs in appreciation of the tea, watching him through the tendrils of steam.

‘I-‘

Ben breaks off, swallowing thickly. His gaze is distant, staring out of the room, past the garden and into an unknown that Miranda cannot reach.

A frustrated breath rattles through his teeth as he runs a hand through his hair.

The eyes that look back to her are ones full of anguish and her heart aches at the sight of him struggling.

Instinctively, she reaches over to thumb away the bruises that cling to his eyes, some faded into freckle, catching a weak chuckle deep in his throat.

‘You’re never going to really get rid of them, you do know that, mi querida?’

Gently, he takes her thumb in his hand, tracing the lines with an artists’ eye. She remembers how he had held her in the shadows of their living room on the evening of Therese’s first text, the swell of Edith Piaf masking their bad footwork, her face buried in his shoulder.

He had held her until the sobs had choked themselves into hiccoughs, a steady stream of sweet nothings lost in her hair that had subsided into comforting silence as they had swayed and tried not to trip over each other’s feet.

‘I know,’ she murmurs. ‘I’d like to try though. Ben, I- I may not understand it, mi querido, but it helps.’

The words don’t sound like her own.

They sound like Teresa’s, Teresa as she had sat in her office when Miranda had first gone to her, her nerves in shreds, her heart hammering, her courage failing just when she had needed it most. Teresa who had gripped her hand as she had spoken the testimony to the tape recorder in the presence of Dominique, Teresa’s secretary, her eyes squeezed tightly shut against the memories.

A deep, thick swallow, a steading gulp of tea and one hand unlaces itself from around Ben’s mug to grip hers, his fingers falling into her palm.

Outside the window, a collard dove flutters in a flurry of dusky sand to roost in the birch tree.

‘It’s always the same.’ Ben’s voice is a wobbling murmur, dark eyes shining out at her.

‘I’m in a truck with the men and- and we’re on our way back to base. The road’s littered with mines and there’s dust absolutely fucking everywhere.’ He stops and lets out a small, weak laugh and Miranda nods.

_The plughole in the shower had been coated in grime and sand for days after they had scrubbed it with bleach. Ben had stood on the corner of their street, bashing out sand from his haversack and getting odd looks from passers-by._

‘They’re going off all around us and the truck’s swerving and the driver- I don’t remember who it was and I- I should- but he keeps losing control of the wheel and- And then-‘

He stops, swallowing convulsively. His eyes are fixed on his tea, the words tumbling from his lips in a torrent of anguish, his shoulder shuddering with effort.

‘And then we hit something which pulls us onto the truck’s side and everyone’s trying to get out, but the door’s jammed and Sarge and Dan are yelling and Dad’s right at the back and I’m trying to reach him. Whatever hit us took- Took the engine with it and the diesel’s alight and the smoke is filling the truck so I can’t see anything in front. I just know that I need to get to him because- Because I’ve still got a knife on me and can get him loose, but-‘

He shudders to a stop, and tries again, but the words don’t come.

Gently, Miranda reaches for his hand, letting her fingers running over the lines of his palm, rubbing over the creases of his knuckles. 

‘Está todo bien ahora,’ she murmurs, reaching up to lose her fingers in his hair, remembering how her Mother would comfort her when she was a child waking in the shadows from a bad dream.

‘Está todo bien ahora, mi querido.’

Taking his face in her hands, she lets her fingers trace the line of his cheekbones, falling against the hard line of his jaw.

‘Richard’s here, Ben,’ she murmurs fiercely as the sounds of the house come back; the hum of the radio, the thud of a door closing, Teresa calling something up the stairs. ‘He’s here and he’s whole and-‘

She has to swallow the lump that has lodged itself in her throat before continuing.

‘And there’s no point thinking on ghosts, it just makes the pain worse when they come.’

Ben chuckles weakly in reply, his eyes still glimmering with ghosts of unshed tears.

‘You’d know all about thinking on ghosts now wouldn’t you, ‘Randa?’

The breath of a smile catches at his lips and she gives him an arch look, resting her head on his shoulder.

They stay there until their tea grows cold and Richard’s voice floats up the stairs telling them that Harris had arrived and asking if anyone would like bacon and eggs for breakfast.

* * *

The air is sharp with a salt stained, westerly breeze blowing up from the sea as they climb the hill above the church that Ben assures her gives wonderful views of the sea on a good day.

Ben has his sketchbook and pencils tucked in his backpack along with a thermos of tea, a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and some homemade sponge cake for supplies.

Earlier clouds have cleared into a softly lit morning, fresh, cool light glimmering over the hazy line of the horizon.

A few early dog walkers gamble along the path, young children tumbling over them as they dash away from the watchful eyes of their parents, scrambling over hands and knees to reach the summit.

The tussock grass threads thick and coarse against Miranda’s fingers, the weight of Ben’s hand in hers a soft, steady comfort as they reach the summit.

The valley stretches out ahead of them, a tapestry of fields seared through by Bradwell Brook, winding its’ way over to the sea.

Tipping her head back, she exhales slowly, letting the salt-sharp coolness engulf her mouth, flooding her lungs with light. The threads of memory flow out with it, back to the half-darkness of forgetfulness.

_Memories of her Grandfather silent and still in the dock, the noise of the court behind him crackling over the video link as she had sat with Teresa in her office and tried to breathe._

_Tried to look anywhere but his small, dark eyes that had burnt into her soul and shredded her composure, watchful in their malice. Tried not to be drawn to his hands held rigidly in his lap, the stubby fingers that had looked so bare without their usual coating of grime and oil, that she could still feel hot and probing against her skin, forcing her lips apart, playing in the darkness between her legs._

_Tried to focus on Teresa’s hand holding her own, on the weight of the crucifix against her skin. On something that was going to stop her from fleeing the office and throwing up in the ladies toilet._

_Only Therese and their Father had been at the first trial that had been thrown out due to the defendant committing contempt of court._

‘Miranda?’

The question is still in the quiet and she blinks, willing the memories back.

‘I’m fine. It’s- It’s just memories.’ The words are spoken quickly, too quickly, as she brushes back the sudden tears, hoping that he will think they are brought on by the wind. Ben nods and Miranda sees with a pang of pain that his own ghosts are gathering behind his eyes.

‘Come on,’ he murmurs, his hand reaching for her own. The ridge of his thumbnail runs over her knuckles, collapsing into her palm as he squeezes gently.

High in the cloud flecked sky, the gulls wheel and dive and cry down towards the crash of the sea.

They tumble down towards a sheltered hollow, shrouded by bright yellow sunspots of gorse and thorny ropes of bramble, stumbling over hillocks and boulders, a breath of sudden laughter lost in the wind.

‘There’s tea in the thermos and I think Mum may have packed us cake? It’s- in – here- somewhere-‘

Ben rummages through the rucksack, pulling out his sketchbook, the thermos and the slightly squashed packet of Hobnobs before finding the Tupperware box of sponge cake, the jam glistening with Richard’s fresh raspberries.

The cake crumbles through Miranda’s fingers and into her lap, jam swirling against her lips, the salt-sharp tang of the breeze engulfing her as she lies back against a boulder.

‘You’ve got jam on your nose, my darling,’ Ben murmurs, looking up from his own cake and grinning as he reaches across to swipe it from her.

A twist of tussock grass is loose in her lap as she watches Ben flick to a new page of his sketchbook and study her, a pencil between his teeth.

‘Stay there,’ he murmurs, the wind caught in her hair, one hand raised to brush a tendril back behind her ear.

The pencil flashes across the page in a preliminary sketch, a shard of sunlight dancing over his face, casting it half in shadow, picking out the crop of his curls.

‘Ben? Who- Who taught you how to sketch?’

Once she’s said it the question sounds foolish, the tussock grass twisting hard against her fingers as she watches him bite his lip in concentration, brows furrowed.

‘Hm?’

A quick glance up, the pencil caught between thumb and forefinger.

‘Who taught you?’

A beat of silence.

Around her, Miranda hears the cries of children tumbling over the path above them, the lumbering bark of a Labrador crashing through the tussock grass. Hears Ben’s heart thudding as he worries the pencil end between his teeth.

‘My Dad,’ he says at last, the words quiet and contemplative, his free hand raking itself through his hair, tearing his gaze away from the paper.

‘He wasn’t much of an artist, but when he was at home, he would get out pencils and paper and let me doodle and scribble until he could find something that he could build on. He taught me how to look at things. Really look at them- I mean, which was kind of a big deal for a seven year old. He was a good teacher- very patient.’ He chuckles ruefully and Miranda smiles, the image of a young Ben bent over a paper with a pencil in hand rising before her eyes.

‘When- When I was at the Children’s Home I tried to remember, but there wasn’t ever any time or space or quiet in that place and you were always trying to keep your stuff from being pinched by the older kids. I used to doodle in class and the teachers hated it.’

A broken pause followed by a shuddering exhale.

‘Whenever I picked up a pencil all I could see was Dad and Daya on the day before he was called back to Kuwait City for his final job, even though we didn’t know it at the time and I just- I couldn’t let the other children see. They teased me enough as it was, without knowing-‘

He stumbles to a stop, throat working wordlessly.

Miranda nods, reaching across the space between them for his free hand and squeezes his fingers gently, knowing all too well what he means.

‘What were they like, your Papá? Your Daya? What-‘

She breaks off at the sight of his gaze, dark and shuttered with memory as he bends back to the sketch, certain that she’s stepped some invisible line that cannot be re-crossed.

‘Kind,’ he murmurs, after a moment’s pause, dark eyes flicking up to hold her own.

‘Brilliant cooks- both of them- once Daya had managed to teach Dad how spices worked. She always wanted to feed people, no matter how little we had or how little time she had after work, she’d always cook. She used to say that food was the next best thing to have after hope.’

Miranda nods, remembering the large family meals that had been such a ritual back in her childhood kitchen. Remembers the huge pans of paella, cauldrons of soup, fresh ciabatta rising in the oven, the dough drenched with glistening green olive oil, studded with rosemary and seasoned with sea salt.

The dining room had always been awash with noise and laughter, the little ones getting under the table and scavenging for leftovers before someone would scoop them up with loving scoldings and take them up to bed.

‘Your Daya sounds like mine,’ she says, trying to forget the silence that had descended over the house after cancer had finally devoured her Grandmother and her Grandfather had moved in with them. Trying to forget the way that her Mother had shrunk into herself, the laughter that Miranda remembers lighting up her eyes fading into nothing.

Instead, she clings to the floury weight of her Mother’s hands guiding hers as she had made cat rolls out of the leftover dough. Had felt her Mother’s fingers pinching out their ears, finding wisps of rosemary for whiskers, black olives for eyes. The way that her laugh had erupted from the very base of her soul and bubbled up into her throat, filling each room with warmth.

‘Does she?’

Ben glances up from his sketch, his head tilting to one side, tongue caught between his teeth. The pencil flashes between his fingers, the lead a blur of graphite dancing across the page.

‘She was always cooking. Or teaching people how to cook. She used to say that if Papá hadn’t been so-‘

She breaks off, the English word dancing just out of reach.

‘Conservador?’

‘Conservative?’

‘Her dream was to set up a cookery school. She taught me how to bake when I was four- just before Therese was born. I remember begging her to let me help with the christening cake. Wisely, she said no.’

Miranda chuckles, the memory of flour and currants and dried fruit and eggs, the kitchen looking like something out of a horror film floating before her eyes.

A small smile cracks at Ben’s lips as he lays his pencils down and stretches, the span of his shoulders rippling under his jacket.

‘Here,’ he murmurs, passing her the sketchbook, eyes dancing in the soft, white light. Above their heads a boy calls back into the wind, his words lost in a gust, the thud and slap of wellington boots echoing against the path.

The sketch is of her, sitting with her face turned out towards the sea, one hand raised to tuck an escaped curl behind her ear, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The rope of tussock grass lies caught between the fingers of her free hand. Lights and shadows of the wind catch against her jacket, stroking her breasts, the glimmer of her earrings, her crucifix.

‘Ben, this- This is _brilliant.’_

He nods, his eyes shining as he shuffles over the grass and reaches for her hand.

She gives it gladly, stroking the lines and ridges of his knuckles, watching the light dance in shadows over his face as he turns towards the wind. The knot that has pulled at his shoulders since that morning seems to loosen as he breathes, turning back to her with shining eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs, reaching up to trace the line of his cheek, brushing over the blush of warmth that she finds there.

Gently, he slips his arm around her shoulders, nestling his head in the crook of her shoulder blades as they turn back towards the sea.

Overhead the wind billows over the sea, a dark wash of ultramarine flecked with billows of white horses, their restless energy rolling in with veils of spray over the sheltered beach below.

‘Anytime,’ he replies, the words caught around a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	8. The Light Is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After celebrating the completion of her postgraduate dissertation with Ben and Mina, Miranda receives news from her uncle that threatens to turn her fragile world upside down and clings to the love of the people around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mary Oliver's poem 'The Ponds' in House of Light
> 
> Literary Natives is a platform for writers of colour based in London and beyond. It was founded in 2018, however quite a lot of artistic license has been used to create a version of it in May 2009.

Three weeks later, as Miranda is packing up her books in the library, the bound copy of her dissertation tucked into an empty folder, the text arrives.

She doesn’t take any notice of it at first. The number is English- her uncle’s- making her think of questions to do with water or gas readings, the visit from the electricians about the faulty radiator in the bathroom.

Campus is quiet, only a few sleep-deprived postgraduates finishing their dissertations still milling about the library café. Bleary eyed and rumpled haired, they sip overpriced, overcaffeinated cups of coffee and try to not think of the future.

The weight of the last few days spent huddled in a study booth in the library, eyes aching under strip lights and the blue glare of her laptop, hang on her shoulders like a cloak. She has barely been home, finding Post It notes and tupperware boxes of leftovers in the fridge when she has ventured into the kitchen.

Ben’s touch had been cool against her cheek as he had left that morning for his run and she had found herself crumpled in her sheets after another all-nighter.

_‘This isn’t healthy, Miranda,’ she’d heard him murmur, his fingers brushing a fallen lock of hair back behind her ear as she had struggled for sleep._

_Soft, May sunlight had dappled over the pillow, spilling shards of light against her exhausted eyes._

_‘It’ll be over soon,’ she’d muttered, her mind already in the library, whirring over the bibliography that she had promised herself that she would finish before printing and binding._

_On the celebratory drinks at the Student Union when the final submissions were handed in on the following morning._

_‘Come home tonight,_ _mi querida? I’ll cook.’_

_The question had been quiet in the stillness and she had turned in the sheets, blinking blearily up at him. Worry had tugged at his cheeks, blackening his eyes in smudges of night._

_Wearily, she had reached over to grip his hand, his fingers falling into her own._

_‘I’ll try,’ she’d murmured, pressing their joined hands to her lips, the ridges of his knuckles hard against her teeth._

And now, as she stands and stretches, feeling the knots of her vertebrae creak against her top and tries to breathe, she cannot feel any sense of relief.

All she wants is to be back in the flat with Ben. Back curled up on the sofa in the living room with an episode of Friends playing on his laptop and a bowl of whatever he has cooked in her lap, the curtains drawn, the lights low.

**From: J**

**Miranda,**

**Can you ring me tonight? I’ve got some news that can’t wait. Hope all is going well and good luck with handing in your dissertation. I’ll be thinking of you. Send my love to Ben and Richard and Teresa.**

_I’ll be thinking of you._

They are such simple words. So simple and yet as her thumbs hover over the keys to send a reply, she cannot explain how much they mean, even to herself.

_They are the memory of the unlit fireplace in her uncle’s living room, blackened raindrops falling with a methodical ticking into the grate. A mirror in a chipped, gilded frame hanging on the wall above reflecting the crisp simplicity of his bachelorhood. A painting of two girls in Edwardian summer dresses at the beach, the wind catching their hair, billowing out the sails of the boats on the water._

_He told her later that it’s a Renoir, but it means little to her at the time._

_A recessed bookcase with tarnished brass candlesticks full of English titles that she would later run her fingers over, tracing their names, wondering their secrets. Ian McEwan, Jeffrey Archer, Jackie Kay, Sebastian Faulks, Margaret Atwood, Donna Tartt._

_An empty vase that she filled with the blush of white lilies, splashes of red carnations, dusky purple tulips bought from an outdoor market, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string._

_The tug of a blanket against her shoulders as she had curled up against the grey, October damp, the sun barely rising above the red brick roofs. The murmur of his voice on the phone in the kitchen careful, modulated, completely in control, to the English police, Immigration and the Spanish Embassy in London, explaining the situation._

_The whistle of the kettle._

_The weight of his hands pressing another mug of tea into her hands, as if its’ warmth could melt away her fear._

_‘Do you want any breakfast, Miranda?’_

_Her stomach had protested at the thought of food, her last meal hastily taken at the all-night airport café where the boy on the till with pits of acne scars on his cheeks had checked her out with a raised eyebrow._

_The creak of his knees as he had knelt beside the sofa, one hand reaching up to brush her hair out of her eyes, the other squeezing her shoulder._

_Dark eyes had watched her out of the long, chiselled face, catching at the aristocratic hook of his nose. He wore the salt hardened years in his cheeks like grooves in granite._

_‘You look so much like your Mother,’ he’d murmured sadly and for a moment she had seen her Mother’s face in his and had had to bite back the too-quick tears._

_She remembers his eyes lingering on the swell of her stomach and she had turned her face away into the pillow, her throat tight, eyes burning._

_‘¿No me enviarás lejos?’_

_The question had been caught around the fabric, in a glance at the front door, the words dazed and frightened and barely there._

_‘No,’ he’d murmured, standing with a creak of old joints._

_‘No, Miranda. I’m not going to do that. Not now.’_

‘Miranda?’

The sound of her name makes her start.

Mina is there with a backpack slung over her shoulders, her crisp Gonja cloth shirt rumpled, smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner bruising her lower lids. 

‘Are you all right? You look-‘

The dark eyes behind the glasses are soft with concern and Miranda shakes her head, trying to smile, tucking an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.

‘I’m fine, Mina. Just- Just tired and ready to get this bloody thing out of my head.’

_And find some space to call Josef and Teresa and try and not break down because she’s exhausted by the sound of her own tears._

Distractedly, she rakes a hand through her hair, her nails pulling at the loose threads of plait that she has barely touched over the last two days, feeling the shadow of a smile tug at her lips.

‘Of course, girl! Then we can celebrate!’

Mina’s arms are warmth and love and strength around her, the eyes behind the tortoiseshell glasses twinkling with something worse than mischief. Miranda melts into them, not for the first time thankful that she somehow fell into this girl’s path when they had sat in the same café on that blustery September morning eight months ago.

_Mina had wrapped her arms around Miranda’s fractured heart, holding her together with quiet words, panicked 2 am phone calls, coffee-shop dates and offers to do the washing up._

_Had tried, in her own sweet way, to take Miranda’s mind off Ben._

_Had told her stories of the summer internship at Penguin Random House that she’d interviewed for, the only black candidate sitting in an oak panelled room in Vauxhall full of white faces. Old, white privilege and old, white money had dripped from the walls like water, pouring off well cut suits, sharp shirts, the glint of a tie pin._

_She’d shown them though. Had marched through to the panel, her head held high in a green silk headscarf shot through with golden threads and had watched their mouths fall open at the sight of her._

_She’d turned the offer down. Had walked instead into taking full responsibility for the running of a storytelling session with Literary Natives at the London Literary Festival, with the hope of securing a job with them after graduation._

_More than once, Mina had turned up on Miranda’s doorstep with pots of Jollof rice, Kelewele and a bottle of vino and they had curled up on the sofa to watch Sense and Sensibility on her laptop._

‘And you have to tell me everything!’

There is a smile hidden beneath the exhaustion.

A glimmering memory of study sessions that had turned into sleepovers when they had collapsed in a tangle of blankets, the lights off, the moon a shard of silver through the open window. Sipping cider whilst leaning out of an open window in Mina’s flat on Saturday evenings, the thread of Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 weaving its’ way through the living room. The late September hum of the Itchen. 

‘Everything?’

Mina nods empathically, taking Miranda’s arm in hers as they leave the library with a swipe of their student ID cards. Miranda watches her wink at the boy on the desk, dark eyes and sharp cheekbones lit up by the screen under a mess of unruly black curls.

‘Who’s that?’

Miranda digs her friend in the ribs as soon as they are out of earshot and winding down the hill.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

Mina dances out of Miranda’s grasp, twirling along the pavement. Miranda hurries to catch up with her, narrowly avoiding a collision with a young mother behind a pushchair full of shopping bags and a protesting toddler who is dragging his feet against the pavement.

The threads of their conversation float back to her on the wind.

‘ _My feet hurt, Mummy! Why can’t I go in the buggy?’_

‘No, Mina, seriously! Tell me!’

Her friend's eyes are dancing with secrets as she turns to wait, reaching again for Miranda’s hand. Miranda feels like she is a child again in the playground being pulled into a corner by a friend, secrets passing like sweets through cupped hands.

‘His name’s Bijoy. He’s studying Nautical Engineering and his Mother’s one of the top financial advisors in Delhi. We met at an evening for Gifted Students in STEM at the start of the semester and he’s invited me out to stay with him for a month after graduation!’ 

She’s fizzing with excitement and Miranda can do nothing but grin back as they tumble down the pavement towards Keats Park.

The afternoon is drenched in early summer rain, soaking their coats and making Miranda shriek as she stumbles after Mina onto the street.

* * *

The door to her building sticks against the key, the lock protesting loudly at the weight of her elbow, curses muttered through gritted teeth.

‘You would think the council would fix that, wouldn’t you?’

Mina’s coat is trying to shelter them both from the worst of the downpour, and Miranda grits her teeth as she tries again.

‘You’d _think,’_ she mutters between gritted teeth, the key cold between her fingers as at last the lock gives way and the door creaks open into the hallway. The laminated notices detailing bin collections and community action groups flap against the plywood noticeboard in the sudden draft.

‘Ben should be home,’ she murmurs, pocketing the keys and stepping aside to let Mina shake the worst of the rain off the coat.

From the third floor, she hears the thud of a door and the careful creak of footsteps as the elderly Indian lady from the next-door flat carefully descends the stairs in a beautifully embroidered white sari.

Miranda nods to her smile, remembering with a pang that’s not quite grief, her knocking on the front door on the evening of Ben’s deployment when she had returned to a flat haunted with ghosts.

_She had stood on the threshold, holding out a silver foil dish of steaming fish curry and freshly baked chapatis between thick, knurled palms._

_Miranda remembers disentangling herself from the mess of her duvet, not taking in the cold mugs of half-drunk tea as she had shuffled to answer the door, her heart chilled with the agony of parting._

_‘'¿Para mi?'_

_The old lady had nodded, her weathered face splitting into a smile._

_‘_ _Gracias. Thank you. Thank you.’_

Miranda watches her shuffle out into the rain with a soft smile, hoping that one day she’ll be able to repay that simple act of kindness.

‘Miranda, is that you? Hi Mina, are you coming to eat with us?’

Ben’s voice floating over the bannister and Mina’s elbow in her ribs brings her back with a start. The door to the flat is ajar and she can just make out the soft thread of strings on the record player.

‘Just a quick drink if that’s alright? I’ve got dinner with another friend tonight,’ Mina replies, and Ben grins, giving her a thumbs up before disappearing.

The living room curtains are drawn when they enter the flat. An array of candles, tealights and her fairy lights glimmer on the window ledge against the softly gathering dusk. There are rainbow tulips in the vase, their petals shadowy against the washed out glow of the streetlamp.

A candle in an empty wine bottle takes centre stage on the desk, Samuel Barber’s _Adagio for Strings_ threading through from the record player, wrapping the room in light.

A long, shuddering exhale pulls through Miranda’s lungs as she drops her rucksack onto the sofa and peels off her coat, listening to Ben rattling about in the kitchen.

‘What are you girls drinking?’

Ben’s eyes are shining as he comes out juggling glasses, three cans of Fever Tree tonic, a bottle of Gordon’s gin and another of Vina Tondonia on a tray, giving them a wobbly spin before they land safely on the table.

‘Gin,’ Miranda murmurs, accepting a glass from him and a can of tonic, pressing his hands in a soft, tight squeeze. Rubs of callouses press up against her fingerprints, the ghost of a charcoal smudge stroking his forehead. 

Ben’s fingers trace the line of her cheek, lingering for a long moment, an unasked question burning deep in his pupils.

‘ _Are you all right. love?’_

_‘I’m fine. I’ll tell you later, Benito.’_

Mina asks for wine, the slosh of liquid catching against the glass.

Out on the street, summer rain hisses against the window and a police car shatters the quiet for a brief moment, lights flaring against the curtains.

The most recent portrait looks down at her from the far end of the living room, framed in an Elm picture frame that Ben had picked up for £5 at the local British Heart Foundation charity shop. Its edges are stained with salt, the plait of tussock grass sitting on Miranda’s bedside table, curled against the pages of a notebook.

‘Freedom,’ Mina murmurs with a rueful nod, raising her glass to the window, her hand slipped around Miranda’s arm as they sink onto the sofa.

Ben watches them from the kitchen door, drying soap-sudded hands on a tea towel.

‘Better than the library though, hey?’

Miranda sips her gin, relishing in the soft comfort of the room, the dance of the flames from the candles blurring before her eyes.

‘If I don’t have to go in there before graduation it will be too soon,’ Mina remarks drily, tucking an escaped curl back behind her ear.

Flickers of candlelight shimmer against the gold beads that are tucked into her cornrows, catching at the wings of her glasses.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Miranda replies, raising her glass in a toast.

‘To a world where Mina gets her job as a publisher with the lovely people at Literary Natives and can show Penguin who’s boss whilst she scouts out the next Malorie Blackman, Ben gets a million commissions that are actually paid for and-‘

She breaks off, her throat suddenly tight.

‘And you’ll get a job working for the Bodleian Library and we get to move to a lovely flat in Oxford?’

The question is softly teasing as Ben discards his glass to kneel at Miranda’s feet, taking her face in his hands.

The weight of his thumbs reaching up to trace the lines of her cheekbones is a soft comfort, his eyes dark and earnest as they shine out of a firelit, freckled face.

Swallowing thickly, she nods, blinking past the sudden pricks of unwanted tears and tries to return his smile.

‘Yes,’ she murmurs, a bubble of laughter catching in her throat as she reaches to brush away the tears, blinking furiously.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, I- I just- It’s been a long week and I-‘

Ben nods quietly, Mina reaching a comforting hand to rest lightly on Miranda’s knee.

‘We get it, lovey,’ Mina murmurs softly. 

Sitting in the gathering gloom that is swirled through with candlelight, Ben pressing a soft, chaste kiss against her forehead and Mina’s head resting on her shoulder, Miranda knows that they do.

* * *

It’s only after Mina has left in a swirl of goodbyes that Miranda remembers her uncle’s text.

Ben is in the kitchen, busying himself with getting supper together and she finds herself curled up on the living room sofa, half listening to his out of tune whistling as she reads the text over and over again, trying to summon the courage to phone.

‘Whatever it is that you’re worried about mi niña querida _,_ it won’t go away if you just stew over it. I can hear you thinking from here! Carpe Diem, Miranda!’

Ben watches her over the doorway into the living room for a long moment, eyes shining in the dying candlelight.

‘It-‘

Miranda breaks off and bites her lip, huffing out a frustrated breath.

‘You’re right,’ she concedes at last, trying to choose her words carefully, keep her voice steady. ‘It’s- It’s my uncle and he’s being so infuriatingly vague that I don’t- I don’t know-‘

‘OK,’ he replies, his voice soft in the quiet. ‘I’ll just be next door if you need me. Supper may be a little late, I think.’

A breath of a laugh catches in her throat and she grins at him.

‘You’re amazing, Ben. Thank you.’

A short nod, the breath of a smile, and he turns back to whatever he has left on the hob, leaving her alone.

Her fingers shiver as she finds his number, curling against themselves until she hits the call button and sits back, trying to breathe.

He picks up on the first ring, the sound of a door being pulled to, the stamp of shoes on a doormat and a dry throat clearing echoing against his silence.

‘Hi Miranda. How are things?’

His voice is a murmur and she hears him moving slowly through the house, the clink of keys falling on the kitchen table, the gush of a tap being run.

‘Fine. We’re both fine. I’ve _finally_ finished my dissertation and I’m handing it in tomorrow.’

She can feel his grin on the other side of the line. His dark eyes that remind her so much of her Mother, his younger sister, alight with genuine, heartfelt pleasure.

‘That’s fantastic! ¡Felicidades!’

‘Thank you! I-‘

She stops and swallows. Tries to gather herself, hating the fact that she can’t say what she knows she needs to.

Without warning, Ben’s words float back to her on the winds of memory, searing themselves into her soul.

_Carpe Diem._

‘I got your text this afternoon. What- What’s going on?’

On the other end of the line she hears him stop, pause, reach for something that she can’t see.

The scrape of a chair against wooden floorboards, the creak of old joints, a long, slow exhale as he sits.

‘It’s your Grandfather, Miranda. Somehow Teresa’s managed to reopen his case and get him back before the Audiencia Provincial. I know that your testimony’s recorded so you shouldn’t be needed, but-‘

_Reopen his case._

The words don’t make sense.

They don’t make sense and suddenly the phone is slipping against her cheek, falling onto the cushion beside her.

Her head is spinning, the air sucked from her lungs and she has to tuck her head between her knees and count her breaths.

In.

‘Miranda? Is everything OK?’

From the kitchen comes a clatter of footsteps and the weight of Ben’s hands holding hers.

Out.

His fingers smell of garlic, ginger and chilli.

In.

The weight of a strangled sob caught in her throat.

Out.

‘Miranda? Miranda, are you still there?’

In.

Her uncle’s voice comes urgently through the phone and she has to squeeze her eyes shut before picking it back up to reply.

Out.

‘I’m still here, Josef. ¿Siento, I didn’t- I didn’t catch what you just said?’

The question wobbles and she swallows thickly, trying to ground herself in the weight of Ben’s hands.

His eyes swim before her own, full of questions that she doesn’t have answers to just yet.

‘The trial started last week. The jury’s out at the moment, but we may be in with a chance of a clear conviction.’

_A clear conviction._

‘Really? That’s- That’s-‘

She doesn’t know what to think.

What to feel.

‘Do my parents know? Therese? Mathilde?’

The questions sound hopelessly childish in the quiet and she hears Josef suck in a breath between his teeth.

‘Yes Miranda, they know. They know that they may be called as witnesses. I’ll make sure that Teresa keeps you updated.’

‘OK,’ Miranda hears herself whisper, the word wet against her tongue.

‘Try not to worry about it too much, mi querida. Teresa will be in touch if she needs you. Think about your dissertation! That’s such a fantastic achievement! I’m so proud for you!’

‘Thanks,’ she murmurs, the word grey and colourless against her tongue.

Ben looks up, loosening his grip on her free hand, eyebrows raised in silent question.

‘You know where I am if you need anything. Whatever happens, I’m- we’re- We’re all extremely proud of you, Miranda. Remember that. Get Ben to feed you now, I seem to remember you telling me that he’s a good cook?’

Despite everything, she feels a small chuckle bubble in her throat at that and darts a smile at Ben who nods, grinning as he makes his way back to the kitchen.

‘Yes. Yes, he is. I’ve no idea what he’s feeding me tonight, but it smells good! It- It was good to speak Josef. Can- Can you send my love to my mamá? My siblings?’

The breath of a pause.

‘Of course. Eat well now. Bye, Miranda.’

She feels him hang up and lets the phone slip from her fingers, her heart cold and full and shaking and still all at once.

‘Here. Eat.’ The weight of a bowl being pressed into her hands and a fork tucked between her fingers and Ben’s lips brushing deep into her hair brings her back.

A steaming broth of noodles and stir fry vegetables seasoned with lemon grass, lime and tiny curls of chilli glistens up at her, Ben’s arm slipped around her shoulder.

‘¿Qué hice para merecerte?’

The question is barely a breath against Miranda’s lips as she reaches up to brush a curl out of his eyes.

Ben’s face is shadowed in the fading candlelight, but she can see a smile there, hidden deep in the corner of his lips.

‘Nothing that you’re not worthy of already, mi niña querida.’

His voice is a murmur, lost in her ear.

Nestling into the warmth of each other’s weight they eat in silence, watching the moon slowly slip out from behind a cloud and pool in shards of silver on the living room floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	9. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After coming to terms with her uncle's announcement, Miranda is given news that she hadn't thought possible by Teresa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter that deals with sexual abuse survival and the trauma that comes with it. 
> 
> My heart goes out to each and every one of the men and women who have suffered at the hands of others in this way and I just hope that this chapter does not try to trivialise their experiences.

A soft spillage of sunlight dances across her eyes as Miranda wakes from a dream that she doesn’t want to remember.

The light is young and early, flecked against the curtains.

She buries herself deeper into the duvet, grateful that for the first time in a while, she does not have to endure a morning fight to get a seat in one of the quiet study spaces in the library.

‘Morning.’

The bed springs creak and she shifts against Ben’s weight as he sits, one hand reaching over to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes.

‘Morning to you too.’

The words are mumbled into the pillow and she blinks, turning to see him perched on the other end of bed, dressed in his pyjamas, water dripping from the lines of his neck.

His eyes still cling to sleep under a damp, unbrushed birds nest of curls, a soft smile dancing across his lips as he watches her.

The ghosts of his own dreams linger deep in his eyes, banished as far away as he can make them go by stubborn, unknown hope.

Miranda can still feel the span of his shoulders as they had risen under her hand, his inhales sharp, his exhales long and ragged in the quiet.

Can still hear the quiet moan that had been almost lost in the pillow, the rough twist of his curls under her fingers as he had turned away from her touch.

When she had reached over to touch his cheek her fingers had skimmed over shards of salt, cleaved deep in the rise and bends of his bones.

_‘I’m here_ _mi querido. Come back to me.’_

‘What time is it?’

A finger lingers against a curl, her hair twisted around a nail where desert dirt still clings.

Slowly, she reaches up to rest her hand over his, their fingers falling, gripping, sliding into one another.

She remembers how he had held her until she had finally fallen asleep, too shaken to say anything, her head tucked into his chest.

Remembers the threaded notes of a whispered lullaby lost in her hair. He will tell her later that it is a Kurdish song he remembers his Daya singing to him as a small child.

‘It’s just after seven. I’ve put the kettle on if you want tea?’

‘Mm,’ she murmurs, watching him stand and stretch before shoving his hands in his pockets and turn a few steps to leave the room with a mock salute, whistling between his teeth.

Lying in the soft silence, Miranda hears him pad out, rising to follow only when the low hum of the Today program floats in from the kitchen.

Dawn has unlocked the morning slowly, filling the room with softly dappled light.

Ben leans back against the countertop, watching her with softly shining eyes, two mugs and a milk jug waiting by the boiled kettle.

Wordlessly, she goes to him, taking his head in her hands, tracing the line from cheek to jaw, scanning his face. There is something there, some wonderful lightness to his skin, some brightness in his cheeks that she hasn’t seen since they were last at Birchwood Cottage.

‘You’re different somehow.’

It isn’t a question as she watches a slow smile play across his lips.

‘I’ve been given my first art commission. From Captain Murray who wants a sketch of his family dog for his wife and kids. He confirmed this morning! They want my art, Miranda! My sketches!’

The words bubble from his throat, his eyes shining like a child on their birthday.

‘Really?’

He nods, turning away from her to fill their mugs, passing hers over.

The warmth seeps into her palms, the steam curling before her eyes and blurring Ben’s features until she blows to cool it.

‘Estoy tan orgulloso de ti,’ she murmurs, reaching for his hand, the callouses of his trade rubbing against her fingers, charcoal smudges staining his cuticles.

Gently he takes her own, moving his tea aside onto the countertop, drawing her close. One hand reaches up to trace the line of her cheek, his head tilted to one side as he studies her, his eyes dark and tender.

‘I’m so proud of you.’ The words are soft and gentle, and the breath of a smile catches at Miranda’s lips, lost in a sunlit kiss.

* * *

Antonia calls as they are crossing the iron-worked bridge over the Itchen into Keats Walk, the morning’s post lying unread on the kitchen table.

The clothes horse is loaded with softly steaming washing, each one slipping through Miranda’s fingers. A pair of Ben’s army socks worn out at the ankles and in need of a darning needle, the bra that she hadn’t changed for most of the previous week, a miscellaneous collection of shirts, pants, boxers, socks, trousers and leggings drip over the floor.

The early morning light flecks against the water, a pair of mallards rising up against the sun shadowed clouds in a flurry of dusky browns and brilliant green.

The park is mostly empty, only a few students on bicycles peddling up from the south side, early morning joggers, a few harried mothers chivvying their children to school.

Ben’s hand is light in hers, his thumb running itself over her knuckles, his face turned up into the soft, May sunlight.

In her pocket her phone vibrates, and she remembers those first terrifying weeks in England when every call or text had sent her heart int crippling panic.

‘Miranda! I thought you weren’t going to pick up!’

The mischievous note in Antonia's voice makes Miranda smile as she casts a glance at Ben and gets a questioning eyebrow in reply.

‘How are you, mi querida?’

They have crossed the Black Bridge and are making their way slowly up the hill towards the campus.

The crackle of a digital voice in the background drowns out Antonia’s reply.

‘She’s probably on the tube _and_ it’s rush hour,’ Ben says with a knowing smile. ‘The joys of Stepney Green, hey?’

Miranda glares at him, giving his ribs a good shove.

‘Sorry ‘bout that. There’s a school class of German kids about to see the sights on this tube,’ Antonia mutters in an undertone and Miranda hears the hiss of the train door closing.

‘I’m fine, getting ready for exam leave which- I can’t wait for them to be over already, d’you know what I mean? I just wanted to ring to say well done for finishing your dissertation. That’s fantastic!’

Miranda makes a small affirmative noise in her throat, because she knows exactly what Antonia means.

‘Gracias, _mi querida,’_ she murmurs, playing for time.

‘’tonia, has your Mamá- I mean, has Teresa said anything- Anything about-?‘

The words come out in a rush and Ben looks at her sharply.

She can’t bring herself to finish the question, hopes that the younger girl will understand.

‘She hasn’t told me much because of case confidentiality, but all I know is that the jury's out and they're taking their time. Shall I ask her to ring you?’

_Yes._

_Yes please._

A pause, the rumble of a London street, a sharp inhale of breath echoing down the line.

‘Shit! I’ve got to run Miranda but send my best love to Ben. Bye!’

The line cuts out, the weight of the phone suddenly heavy in Miranda’s palm.

She exhales slowly, letting the world around her continue to spin, squeezing her eyes shut.

Out of the corner of her eye, she feels Ben watching her curiously, but she finds that she can’t return his gaze.

His hand reaches for hers, soft and tentative.

‘It’s OK.’

His voice is almost lost in the rumble of one of the park’s gardener buggies, his thumb working comforting circles over the back of her hand and her throat feels impossibly tight.

With his free hand, he reaches to cup her cheek. His fingers press lightly, an imprint of shared love and pain shivering into the skin.

His eyes are dark and shining, flashes of hazel that she hasn’t noticed until now threading across the iris from the pupil.

‘It’s going to be OK.’

‘It’s not though, is it? I- Ben- I didn’t- I didn’t mean for this to happen and you- You’ve been given that commission and now you’re just- You’re picking up my mess and you shouldn’t- Not after- Damn it!’

She hardly knows what she’s saying as the English words stumble to a stop and she bites her tongue in frustration.

The tang of salted iron burns against her lips, her eyes are stinging with tears that she doesn’t want to shed.

‘Miranda.’

Ben’s voice is steady, only the slightest waver betraying any swallowed emotion.

She feels his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, a finger reaching up to tuck a loose curl back behind her ear.

‘Miranda, look at me. _Listen_ to me, mi querida. Do you know who you sounded like just then?’

She can only watch the flicker of a smile that does not reach his eyes dance, shiver and die on his lips.

‘You reminded me of myself when I first arrived at Birchwood. I was a twelve-year-old refugee from a war zone in a foreign country where I was too frightened to speak the language. My parents were dead. And I believed it was my fault. I broke myself over and over again because no one had thought to tell me that it wasn’t.’

His grip on her shoulders tightens, one hand reaching up to trace the line of her cheek.

‘So don’t you dare blame yourself for what’s happening now. You hear me?’

His gaze is dark each word fierce and proud and broken all at once.

She shudders under their intensity and wants to retaliate but is silenced by an arch look.

‘Don’t you dare. Miranda, you are not the consequence of his actions. You never will be. You told me, not so long ago, that I was loved for what I brought to the world. And so, I’m telling you my darling, that you are not the sum of your suffering. Teresa told me that every night when she sat up when I couldn’t sleep after trauma counselling. Multiple times. No one is.’

There is the smallest quirk to Ben’s eyebrows, his hands squeezing hers until it is almost painful.

Despite herself, she feels the ghost of a smile catch against her lips, cold and shivering in the morning light.

‘It doesn’t make it any easier.’

‘No,’ he replies in rueful agreement, easing his grip on her hand, his fingers tracing the lines of her knuckles. ‘You’re right, it doesn’t. You never get used to it, but it- it’s important to remember.’

Around them, the sun slips out from behind a cloud and a russet Cocker Spaniel bounds past after a tennis ball.

In the silence, Miranda feels her phone vibrate with an incoming text.

**From: Mina**

**Where are you?! Get your skates on, lovey!**

**M xoxo**

‘Mierda!’

All thoughts of handing in her dissertation have been completely obliterated by her uncle’s news and now the weight of the bound papers that she has poured her blood and soul into for the last five months floods back in a wave of panic. 

‘I’ve got to go, mi querido,’ she says hurriedly, throwing her backpack over one shoulder, stuffing her phone back in the pocket of her jacket and hoping that it isn’t too late.

‘There’re going to be drinks at the Student Union afterwards. You- Can you come?’

‘I’ll be there,’ he replies with a soft smile, taking her face in his hands and brushing the line of her nose with his forefinger.

Mina meets her on the steps of the Tom Atkinson building at 10:55, the breath of Ben’s words rising back on the wind.

_‘You never get used to it, but it- it’s important to remember.’_

They are a blade scraping against her heart, bleeding the wound clean over and over again as she had run up the hill towards campus.

They had echoed in the thud of her feet against the pavement. In the shouts of a balding middle aged man in a white trade van who had had to screech to an emergency stop as she had weaved her way across the road without waiting for the lights to change at the zebra crossing.

‘ _Oi! Watch where you’re going, love! I could’ve hit you!’_

The majority of campus has been coloured with the most florid Spanish curses that she could dream up, but Miranda finds that in the present moment, she doesn’t really care.

Doesn’t care that she looks a fright, red faced and out of breath, her bun unravelling into its’ flyaway plait. On the steps Mina is grinning, hands on hips, a mischievous twinkle glittering in her eyes.

‘Go on,’ she murmurs, her fingers lingering in a quick, tight squeeze as Miranda takes the stairs four at a time. ‘I told Annabel to wait.’

Five minutes later she emerges, all but falling into the other girl’s arms.

‘Hey! You’re OK, you did good ‘Randa! You’ve done it, we’re free!’

Mina is pulling her into a tight embrace and she’s clinging to her rocking weight, wanting to lose herself in the sweetly spiced cinnamon scent of her friend’s perfume.

Wanting to banish the choked-up words that are lodged in her throat- broken, bloody words that she wishes she could erase for good.

‘Come on,’ Mina murmurs, taking her hand with a reassuring squeeze, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. ‘Charlie and Rosie are meeting us at the bar.’

In her pocket, Miranda’s phone vibrates with an incoming call, but she ignores it.

Later, she will wonder why.

* * *

A thread of noise greets them as they make their way across campus.

The student union hangs suspended for the end of exams, the bar relatively empty apart from a table where Charlie, Rosie and Ben are sat, nursing G&Ts and a Black Sheep pale ale by the mullioned windows. The hum of their conversation runs low against the clink of washed glasses being hung up to dry.

Charlie, his hair heavy and golden over a broad, good natured face, sliced cheekbones and wide, blue eyes that glitter with smiles despite their bruises, stands to greet them.

His upbringing as the son of a wealthy dairy farmer in Sussex shines through a well-made, rumpled striped shirt and dark chinos, his handshake firm. The roughness of his fingers still tell stories of early morning wake up calls and the swish and stamp of the cows as they plodded into the milking parlour.

Before beginning his M.A he’d read History at Bristol and had moved to Winchester because he had fallen in love with the city on a school trip at the age of eleven, nursing a childhood dream to live next to a cathedral.

Rosie is tall and tanned and blonde with soft hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles running over the bridge of her nose, pooling over the arches of her cheekbones. Effortlessly beautiful in a tailored emerald green shirt with gold studs at the lapels, dark jeans and a burgundy jacket, her eyes shine over the rim of her gin glass as she gives Miranda a thumbs up. 

Rosie had spent her childhood in Sydney, running in and out of the sea and living a stone’s throw from her Mother’s- a film producer- childhood home. Miranda remembers her saying on one of their first nights out together that nobody had told her just how cold the little rain-soaked island she now calls home was.

‘All finished mi querida?’

Ben’s smile reaches his eyes, his hair a rumpled birds nest. He’s wearing an old Green Jacket’s jersey that is patched at the elbows over his jeans.

Miranda nods, unable to stop smiling as she steps into his arms, closing her eyes against the breath of his kiss.

‘Mum rang me just now,’ he murmurs in an undertone. ‘She tried to ring you earlier, but you didn’t pick up. It’s-‘

But before he can say any more, Charlie is waving them to their seats, pressing a gin into Miranda’s hands and handing Ben another bottle of pale ale. 

They slip into an easy conversation, Ben quizzing Charlie about his dissertation topic, Mina and Rosie debating Bell Hooks, Germanine Greer, Caitlin Moran and the relativity of female privilege.

‘What’re your thoughts, Miranda?’

The question comes easily from Rosie’s mouth, the mouthful of gin going cold against Miranda’s teeth.

‘Sure,’ she murmurs, swallowing thickly and changing a glance at Ben, who doesn’t catch her gaze.

‘I- I’ve never liked that word- relativity. You might say that I’m more privileged than Mina because people will look at me and not judge the colour of my skin before my character- not often, anyway.’

Mina nods quietly, toying with one of her simple gold rings, its’ light dancing off her glass.

Rosie opens her mouth to argue, but Mina silences her with a look.

A compulsive swallow lodges itself down Miranda’s throat at the sight of her friend and she catches in a breath before continuing, fixing her gaze on a spot on the wall between them.

‘And yet- And yet so many Spanish men- my Father and Grandfather included- _still_ don’t believe in education for girls beyond the age of sixteen and are fighting for my younger sisters to stay at home and not sit their Bachillerato. My sister Therese had to do her studying in secret at friends’ houses or under the covers with a torch for her university entrance exams. I- My-‘

Rosie’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Mina’s gaze soft with known sympathy, although Miranda can’t remember whether she’s told her the story in all of its’ sordid entirety.

Miranda doesn’t know which is worse.

Breaking off, she looks away, biting her lip, squeezing her eyes shut.

The words dance before her eyes and she fights them back.

_My Grandfather violated my body without my consent for four years._

_I lost a child._

_I sat in a hospital waiting room and was prescribed pills to kill the life that was growing inside me._

_A beautiful, unknown life that had been born from hours of agony, that I knew I couldn’t keep._

Her head is spinning with gin as she forces the words out, each one choking her throat.

‘You want a privilege Olympics? Well, here’s one for you. Does the fact that I’m Hispanic and not overtly bigoted against trump the fact that my Grandfather violated, no- Not violated, that’s not it-‘ 

The word hovers against her tongue, its plosive sounds shaper than glass and she spits it, hating the taste. 

‘He raped me without consent for four years! Does the fact that that happened to me and that I’m not a person of colour make it somehow better?!’

The words are tumbling out faster than Miranda can stop them, and she is painfully aware that she’s losing whatever self-control she has left.

‘Does the fact that I’ve been lucky enough to have an uncle who helped me pass my exams, get a good undergraduate degree, and who gave me the chance to study for a Masters when girls in my position find themselves out in the streets with a baby they couldn’t care for trump the fact that Ben’s mother is trying to push forward stricter sexual predator laws to seek justice for victims of assault? That she’s trying to make abortion clinics and trauma counselling more accessible, so we don’t always have to live under the shadows of what was done to us? Does-?’

And then, just as they’ve begun, the words stumble to a stop, a great wave of unbearable exhaustion breaking over her heart.

Ben is watching her with troubled eyes, half out of his seat, his fingernails digging white on the back of his chair.

_Miranda,_ his eyes seem to say; desperate in the silence.

_Please don’t do this._

_Don’t torture yourself like this._

_It’s not worth it,_ _mi querida._

And suddenly, she doesn’t have the courage for anymore.

Doesn’t have the energy to fill the appalled silence, or comfort Rosie’s glistening eyes, or tell Charlie that no, she’s not lying. That the truth for her and so many girls like her is written in blood and tears over her heart, held deep in her uterus.

‘I didn’t know,’ Rosie whispers, her words barely a breath.

Charlie looks appalled, Mina pale and silent.

Ben is on his feet, but Miranda finds that she can’t look at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs to no one in particular. The drink is making her head ache, the pain pounding against her temples.

Not turning to look back, she turns on her heel and flees the bar into the soft hiss of summer rain.

* * *

‘Miranda? It’s good to hear your voice, darling. How are you?’

She hardly knows.

Teresa’s voice crackles over the phone, caught in a gust of wind.

Miranda feels herself shudder into her coat as she sits on the steps of the union, the steady hum of traffic not helping her pounding head.

‘I- I’m sorry I didn’t pick up your call earlier,’ she mumbles, the words sounding small and lost in the great wide space of the city.

The older woman’s laugh is light yet caught with something that Miranda can’t place.

In the quiet, she listens to the cries of the gulls in the background, the faint echo of the waves as they pound the rocks below the cliff path.

‘That’s all right, mi querida. Ben told me that you were handing in your dissertation. Richard sends his congratulations. We’re both incredibly proud of you, Miranda.’

Her sincerity sends another lump deep into Miranda’s throat and she has to swallow thickly, willing herself to stay in control.

‘Teresa, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about? ‘tonia didn’t know and-‘

She can’t take back the words and hears Teresa pause, sucking in a breath between her teeth.

Behind her, she hears the front door to the Union open, the thud of feet against sandstone steps.

‘The jury came back this morning with the verdict on your Grandfather’s trial.’

The silence seems to beat.

Pulse.

Snap.

All the air has left Miranda’s lungs and she’s gasping, unsure whether she’s heard Teresa correctly and understood.

A breath of frustrated laughter bubbles from Teresa’s lips.

‘It sounds so simple looking back now, but I can’t believe it took them so long! He’s been charged! Your grandfather’s been charged. The judge passed a life sentence, Miranda. Se acabó. It’s over. You never have to see him again, mi querida. Ever.’

_It’s over._

For a moment a surge of nausea catches in her throat and she sways on her feet, clutching the phone like a lifeline.

_It’s over._

Around her the world is pitching like a ship against rough seas, although whether that’s due to the alcohol that’s swirling round her head, or sheer exhaustion, she can’t tell.

‘Gracias.’

The word is a broken sob against her tongue.

‘Thank you. Teresa, I- I don’t know-‘

A breathless laugh catches in her throat, shuddering suddenly against the sobs that tighten against her chest.

Suddenly she finds herself sat on the steps, cradling her phone, basking in the weak, white sunlight that is slowly winking out from behind a cloud, chinks of blue emerging slowly against bursts of grey.

On the other end of the line, Teresa is crying too, laughing through her tears as she hangs up.

Miranda sobs for herself.

For Therese and Mathilde, Juan and Sofia and Aletta and her Mother.

For Teresa and Richard.

For Ben’s parents- their memories forever etched in the sharp cheek boned, freckled, soft hearted face of their son who still shines with hope despite all the wrongs the world had thrown at him.

‘Miranda?’

The weight of a hand on her shoulder makes her start and look up.

Ben’s face is dark with concern, his eyes shining as he squats on his heels beside her, the back of an index finger reaching to trace the lines of her cheek. The other presses a packet of tissues into her free hand, accepted with a weak, wet chuckle.

‘Are you all right, love?’

She nods wordlessly, unable to speak past the choked lump in her throat. 

‘Rosie apologised. She- She had no idea. It was crass and under hand and she’s absolutely mortified.’

‘I’ll talk to her,’ Miranda hears herself murmur non- committedly, her mind not on Rosie but on Teresa’s words that are still ringing through her head.

_‘Se acabó. It’s over. You never have to see him again,_ _mi querida. Ever.’_

‘Ben-‘

His name is a breath on her tongue as she looks up to hold his gaze, dabbing her eyes and scrunching the tissues into her fist.

‘The trial- The jury gave their verdict on my grandfather’s trial today.’

His eyes widen as he bites his lower lip, reaching for her hand.

‘And?’

For the briefest of moments Miranda feels her eyes slip shut, squeezing against too-quick tears.

When she opens them again Ben is still watching her, his face a picture of badly contained hope.

‘He’s been convicted. The judge passed a life sentence. I- It’s-‘

She stumbles to a stop, her throat working wordlessly as she looks up at him, unable to make it any more coherent, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch into a grin.

It’s watery and wavering, caught into a breathless burst of laughter, Ben’s eyes brilliant with sudden realisation.

And then she is in his arms, being spun off her feet, his fingers caught deep in her hair.

‘I knew it!’

She melts into his touch, resting her head against the dip of his shoulder; drinking in his scent, relishing in the warm weight of his arms holding her.

His laughter is choked into her hair, lost in a whispered kiss.

They stay there until the clouds clear fully and a rainbow smudges itself in all its’ brilliance across the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	10. Resurgam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda graduates in the vaulted splendour of Winchester Cathedral surrounded by all those she now calls family

Miranda graduates in the vaulted splendour of Winchester Cathedral on a blustery June morning.

The air is sweet and sharp with notes of rain in the night and her fingers fumble as they tie the rope of her plait in front of the mirror and twist it up into a bun.

‘Mum and Dad are going to be here at 10 with Antonia, Harris and Hagman,’ Ben remarks as he perches on the edge of the bed and adjusts his tie, face scrubbed and freshly shaved, the line of the razor glistening against his chin. His feather-dark curls have been snagged through with a comb, tamed into an idea of obedience that Miranda knows will not last long.

‘Sarge and Ramona may be late. It depends if they can get past security and find their hired car in time.’

‘They’re coming back from staying with Ramona’s parents in Merida, aren’t they?’

She turns to watch him as he nods, the light slowly catching against the lines and bends of his face. His eyes are warm and tender with love, their hazel fire gleaming in the soft June sunlight.

They’d received a postcard from Ramona at the weekend, tales of sun shadowed walks down cobbled streets, expeditions into the hills, lazy afternoons down by the river and evenings spent on the terrace under the shade of a lemon tree, coming alive through her writing.

Leaning back against her chair Miranda sighs, letting the world slip past her, fingers reaching into the depths of her hair, drawing inky strands out of the braid.

In the quiet, the deep thrum of the ‘cello in Corelli’s Adagio hums its’ way from the record player, the record a new purchase that Ben had found at a car boot sale. She hears him potter slowly about the living room, gathering up his sketchbook and pencils, finding mugs and milk and tea bags from the kitchen, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

In her minds’ eye, she sees the preliminary sketches for Captain Murray’s commission skim over the desk. Sees a crop of dark curls bent over them, then leaning back as his hand pulls through his hair, the pencil between his teeth, tapping against the desk edge as he ponders light and shadow, composition and form.

Her reflection watches her from the mirror on her desk, reflecting back the crumpled nest of her duvet, the copy of Hardy’s _Far from the Madding Crowd_ on her pillow that she has marked her place in with an old train ticket found deep in the recesses of her purse.

A half packed overnight bag lies open at the foot of her bed; a bundle of pants and socks, tops, an old checked shirt of Ben’s with a ripped collar and a washbag spilling out over the zip.

So much has happened in the last few weeks that she hardly knows herself.

So much has happened and yet here she sits, not quite pretty, the weight of her hair pulled up against the nape of her neck. Ben’s first self-portrait watches her from the wall, its’ pencil lines and shadows caught in a shard of summer sunlight.

The glimmer of her crucifix catches between thumb and forefinger, the known lines and bends of the cross an anchor in an uncertain world.

On her bedside table, she catches sight of her phone, a text to Therese that she has yet to send waiting for its turn.

It will come, she knows that much, but not yet.

But before she can muse any further, the buzzer to the flat goes and Ben is at the phone, giving her a thumbs up.

His mouth is caught in a life-enhancing grin and she barely has time to wait before she hears the tread of feet on the stairs and Antonia’s voice crashing in like a whirlwind through the front door.

‘Ben! Miranda!’

Antonia’s eyes are shining, her hair a fly-away mess of blonde curls as she pulls them both into a fierce hug.

‘Give them time to breathe, lass!’

Richard is filling the hallway, smart in grey-blue linen jacket and dark trousers. Teresa is on his arm in a soft sun dress with red poppies creeping up the skirt, her eyes softening in a look of mutual understanding with Miranda.

There is so much that she wants to say, but Ben is brushing past her to greet Harris and Hagman, murmuring in her ear to put the kettle on, Antonia is exclaiming over her dress and the moment passes before she knows that it has begun.

‘The ceremony’s at 11:00, isn’t it?’

They have all managed to crowd into the living room somehow, crammed onto the sofa and perched on kitchen chairs, clutching mugs of mint tea picked from the window box on the kitchen windowsill.

Harris watches her over the rim of his mug, his eyes sharp behind his glasses.

The knots that had entangled themselves in Miranda’s stomach earlier that morning tighten, as she nods mutely, willing her hands to stop trembling against her mug.

In that moment the thought of walking up the revered hush of Winchester Cathedral in graduation robes feels as impossible to her as being chosen for a voluntary mission to the moon.

‘You’ll be grand, lass. We’ll be with you. All the way.’

Dan Hagman’s warm, knurled hand resting lightly over her own makes her start; deep, warm eyes watching her out of his weathered, homely face.

A long exhale pulls through her lungs and she nods, trying to steady herself.

On her other side, Antonia nods, her eyes shining, warmth and love flooding through her gaze.

Leaning back against the sofa, she lets out a contented sigh, watching Teresa’s hands flick in gesticulation in the shifting sunlight, half listening to Richard, Dan and Ben’s bets on how late Harper and Ramona will be.

‘Are you excited?’

Antonia’s mouth is lit in a soft smile that reminds her so much of her Father.

‘Nervous,’ she admits and the younger girl nods, reaching for her hand in a small, tight squeeze.

‘But excited, I think.’

She flicks her gaze to Ben who nods, a breath of a smile dancing against his lips.

‘I get that,’ Antonia says quietly, raising her eyebrows to an unheard question of her Mother’s.

‘I-‘

Miranda’s voice catches in her throat, the words that she wants to say heavy against her tongue.

‘I just wish-‘

‘Hm?’

She swallows thickly, looks down at her hands.

‘I wish my sisters could see this. My- My Mamá. I wish they knew- well- Well they _do_ know, but I wish they could see that this was possible, despite the men in their lives being backward pigs at times. Does that make sense?’

Antonia nod as she grins, her eyes shining with understanding. Her free hand reaches to hold Miranda’s, her thumb working lightly against her skin.

‘Of course it does.’

* * *

Harper, Ramona and little Patrick arrive just as Miranda is leaving the flat to pick up her graduation gown.

Her stomach is in knots and she can only nod mutely in Ramona’s direction, feeling the breath of a smile catch at her lips at the sight of the trio clambering out of their hired car.

Wordlessly, Ben takes her face in his hands when they are out of earshot, his thumbs stroking the line of her cheeks. They rest against her jaw as he presses his lips against her forehead. Around them cars rumble past, the light chatter of two young mums pushing push chairs, the whisper of trees leaning into the wind.

And then for a moment, the world stands still.

‘You are going to be wonderful, mi queridísima,’ Ben murmurs, his eyes shining, biting his lip as he studies her.

Miranda nods, her throat tight, unable to finds the words in any language to express how much she loves him.

How much she loves him, despite his shadows. Despite the way that his breath tastes of sunshine on one morning and then comes quick and shallow with memories the next, his lips brushed with the ashes of a life that she is still trying to figure out. 

Reaching for his hand, her fingers find the rubs and callouses of his pencils and squeezes gently.

‘We’ll be all right, though. Won’t we?’

Ben nods, a chuckle catching deep in his throat, glancing at their joined hands and then back up at her.

‘’Course we will.’

They walk quietly up the street, listening to the ripple of the wind through the trees.

His fingers are lights in hers, his face turned skyward, shadowed in a brush of cloud, the white snake of an aeroplane’s trail as it cuts towards a London airport.

‘I missed this,’ he says after a while, when they’ve turned a street corner and the manicured horn beans that shield the West Downs Campus building come into view, an ash tree shading a lone bench in dappled shade.

‘This?’

Miranda’s voice is a question, as he stops before the iron worked gates and turns to face her.

‘You,’ he says simply, a quirk to his eyebrows, his eyes shining with memory.

‘Ben, I-‘

She’s about to say more, when he interrupts.

‘I- I dunno-‘

He breaks off, runs his free hand through his hair and she smiles at his exasperation.

Just- Just this. Dad, Pat, Harris and Dan always used to joke that soldiers missed two things. Their wives, _or_ girlfriends,’ a nonchalant shrug, ‘and home cooking.’

She nods, wonders where he’s going to take this.

‘But there’s a third, I think. Night after night when we were out on operation and the sandstorms went howling through the camp and nobody slept much, or jumping out of troop transports into the unknown, or when we back at base camp and got letters, I- I knew that it wasn’t any kind of duty that was keeping me from getting up the next day. It wasn’t duty that kept me- kept _us_ going after Tongue and Cooper’s deaths-‘

He breaks off, the memories rising like a sea wall behind his eyes.

Memories of a cairn built from sandbags and desert dust, the Royal Green Jacket’s flag flying brave and true against a grey washed dawn. The padre’s murmured words from the book of Isaiah, their monotony an old, worn comfort for fallen comrades.

A single bugler ringing out the long, low notes of _Sunset_ that rises and falls over the desert sands, haunting the endless valley sky long after the ragtag band of brothers had marched out.

_Duty._

He spits the word out as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

'¿Y que?'

The Spanish comes easier to her than English, slipping softly off her tongue.

‘You,’ he replies, after a beat of stretched silence, shaking his head in frustration; dark eyes dappled with light.

‘Your strength. Your lion-hearted courage. That’s what kept me going, mi querida.’

Gently, she takes his face in her hands and strokes the lines of his cheekbones, her fingernail catching on his lip, tasting saliva.

His lips taste of what she hopes stardust tastes like; soft, enduring and endlessly beautiful.

* * *

It’s only much later that the rest of the day comes back.

_Waiting in the vestry of Winchester Cathedral, the room awash with the rustle of gowns, the shifting of shoulders under suit jackets, Mina’s hands deftly retying the end of her plait, the steadily filling hum of the knave as the spectators found their places._

_The Cathedral flooded with soft summer light as the graduands were led up the knave._

_Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda had caught sight of Ben grinning and tried to smile, swallowing thickly to clear her mouth. His eyes had brimmed over with love as he had sat next to Dan who had given her a small, imperceptible nod._

_Teresa’s face alight with pride as she looked up at Richard, his smile dancing into the depths of his eyes. Teresa who has given so much of herself to try and understand, to protect and guide her in this new life that she has made for herself. Teresa with the heart and courage of a lioness, her eyes glowing with love and joy and hope._

_Antonia sat between her parents, eyes wide with awe as she takes in the Cathedral’s winged buttresses and flying beams. Miranda watched her cast a glance to Richard in silent question, who had nodded in reply, beaming._

_On Richard’s other side, Harper, the man who has been just as much a Father to her and Ben as Richard has, beamed at her over little Patrick’s curls._

_Harris nodding in approval, dark grey eyes glowing behind his spectacles._

_Her heart had felt as if it would break with love for all of them as the warm weight of Rosie’s hand had fallen against her own in a small, tight squeeze. Her eyes glowed, her hair swept against her shoulder, a blush of lipstick blooming on her lips._

_She’d returned the smile, remembering how Rosie had found her in a rustle of black just before the ceremony began, pulled her into a tight, silent embrace._

_The look in her amber eyes had said more than words ever could and for that Miranda is grateful._

_And then, all too soon, it was over._

_Summer sunlight had dappled over the Cathedral grounds as the graduates had filed out, blinking in the light, the weight of their degree parchments heavy in their hands._

_There had barely been time to breathe before Miranda had been engulfed by multiple hands; tackled from behind by Ben and Antonia. Had had to fight to breathe before Harper and Dan had pulled them both away, and Ramona had pressed a bouquet of pale pink lilies into her hands, little Patrick reaching chubby hands for her._

_Barely time to think before Teresa had taken her head in her hands and kissed her gently on both cheeks, her thumbs working lightly against the rise and bend of bone._

And now, sitting in the spare bedroom at Birchwood Cottage, listening to the hiss of a summer shower echo through the eaves, Miranda finds that she can breathe.

Her overnight bag lies open on the bed beside her, her degree parchment on the bedside table. The window is half ajar onto the garden where a song thrush hops about the lawn, a blackbird takes flight from the bench, the air smelling of summer rain. The lilies are in a vase on the windowsill, the green newness of their stems vivid against the chipped paintwork.

Below her, the familiar hubbub of the house slowly going about its’ daily business floods up the stairs.

If she listens closely, she can hear the door to the kitchen being pulled to, the whistle of a kettle boiling, the tread of footsteps, a door being pulled to and Antonia calling up the stairs. 

They are a tapestry of sound that rests lightly on her heart, gently holding her battered soul.

Her phone rests on her lap and swallowing thickly, she flicks it open and scrolls down to find Therese’s number, her fingers numb against the keys.

‘¿Hola? ¿Quien es este?'

Her sister picks up on the second ring, a rush of chatter caught in the background.

‘Therese.’

Her sister’s name is a breath on her tongue, memories of late nights when they had stayed up reading under their duvets or gossiping about the boys from the school across the square, the torchlight glowing through the cotton. Had had to push the torches under their pillows at the sound of adult footsteps creaking against the floorboards, giggling at the game.

‘How are you?’

Miranda switches to English without meaning to. Her eyes wander to the shards of silver thin cobweb clinging to the gap between the bedstead and nightstand, a shaft of summer light refracting in a pool against dark wood. 

‘Fine. We’re- We’re as good- as- As se puede esperar. Si, I’m in Barcelona at the moment, I haven’t been home for a while. Sofia and Juan came to visit at the weekend. It was good to see them. How- How are you?’

Therese’s voice is short and clipped and Miranda’s heart twists at the thought of her firebrand of a sister having her flames extinguished, her vibrant colours dampened into dullness.

She swallows thickly, the memories of standing under the birch trees sipping Prosecco, Ben’s hand light in hers, suddenly feeling a lifetime ago.

‘I’m- I’m well. I- I graduated today. How- How’s Mamá? Papa?’

The words sound small and insignificant in the quiet.

'¡Felicidades!’

Miranda can hear the smile in Therese’s voice, but knows instinctively that it doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘Mamá misses you, Miranda. So much. I spoke to Aletta the other day. She asked me when you were going to come home and I- I told her that I didn’t know. How can you explain to a six-year-old about why her older sister’s not here anymore?’

She chuckles wetly and Miranda has to agree with her.

‘I’ll come home soon,’ she murmurs in the quiet.

‘Really?’

The question holds a spark of brightness, one that Miranda desperately wants to fan into a living, hopeful flame.

‘Yes, mi querida. I’ll bring Ben and come and see you and you can show us round. I can’t remember the last time I went to Barcelona?’

On the other end of the line, Therese chuckles.

‘You were nine. I was four. I think we were taken round the cathedral and then went to beach and I had my sandwich stolen by a gull and you flicked sand in my eyes to see if I cried, which I did. I didn’t stop until Papa got us both chocolate ice creams. D’-D’you remember?’

Miranda smiles at the memory.

‘Mathilde was a baby then, wasn’t she?’

She hears her sister make an affirmative noise in her throat and sighs, listening to the steady thrum of raindrops on the roof.

‘I’ve missed her,’ she says after a long moment.

‘I miss her too. I miss the funny little games she used to play with English words from the dictionary. Do you remember?’

I do,’ Miranda replies, chuckling, her fingers catching at the corner of her coverlet.

‘She’ll love seeing you, if you come.’

The tentative catch of breath on the conditional that makes Miranda’s heart ache harder.

‘ _When,_ Therese,’ Miranda corrects her, blinking back dry tears.

Remembering Ben and Carpe Diem and conquering the world with a single word.

‘I’ll talk to Ben later tonight. See if we can make a plan for the rest of the summer. Therese, can you- Please can you send my love to the others?’

After she hangs up, she sits back and, leaning against the headboard, lets the phone slip from her fingers onto the duvet.

Unconsciously, her fingers find the lines of her crucifix, murmuring the old words of an Ave Maria.

‘Miranda?’

A double knock makes her start and turn to see Ben leaning against the door frame, watching her with soft eyes.

Behind him, she sees the flash of Antonia’s curls disappearing along the passage, hears her footsteps clattering down the stairs, the ghost of her voice ringing out behind her.

‘It was upstairs in the bathroom, Harris!’

‘Harris and Dan are just going, if you want to come down,’ he says at her questioning eyes, crossing the room in two strides to sit beside her.

‘You- You OK?’

One hand reaches for her own and she nods, biting her lower lip.

‘I called Therese,’ she replies after a moment, watching his eyes widen, his curls returned to a chaotic cloud over his forehead.

‘Just now. She-‘

She breaks off, watching the shadowed sunlight play over the lines and bends of his face, emotions running like water through his eyes.

‘She’s invited us- Well, no- _I’ve_ invited us to go to Barcelona to stay with her later on in the summer. Can we go?’

He doesn’t reply at first.

‘Do you think you can?’

The question is a murmur, softer than a breath, a glimmer of a smile working at the corners of his mouth.

His thumbs work deep into the pits of her cheeks, pressing hard into the bone.

Miranda nods, feeling a smile catching in the corners of her mouth, stabs of salt pricking suddenly in her eyelids that she tries to blink away.

‘Good,’ Ben says simply, his hands falling away slowly to rest in his lap.

They stay there until the shadows lengthen and the room is filled with the blaze of a dying sunset.

Its’ fiery light cascades through the leaves of the birch tree, pouring through the window and setting the lights in Ben’s eyes ablaze.

Miranda turns her face towards the light, letting him take photo after photo as she grins into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Phoenixflames12 xxx


	11. Sea Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda joins the Moreno-Sharpe and Harper families for an evening on the beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of On Loving A Wounded Boy is here!
> 
> I would not have plucked up the courage to write this story and take it in the directions it went without the love and support of @CpatainKiran and @hopefulfridays who have been such wonderful supporters of this story both on here and on tumblr. You both have my eternal gratitude.

The last lights of evening cast long, low shadows over the sea as they pull up in the twilit silence of the visitor’s carpark later that evening.

Richard had suggested an evening down on the beach, with a fire and a barbeque and the Kelly Kettle to make tea. The wind is light against Miranda’s upturned face, the tide just turning, the sun blazing over the sea.

The tussock grass that rises from the dunes is bent back against the force of the wind, the path a thin, shell strewn line that winds its’ way down onto the shore. Coils of bailer twine litter the path, shells and stones and bottle caps, bottles and cans from midnight drinkers kicked into the grass.

Harper picks up an old aerosol can and snarling unspoken displeasure earns a chuckle from Richard.

A flock of Dunlins take flight over the tide mark, rising together in a flurry of black barred wings, their silhouettes hanging in the vivid fire of the sky.

Miranda sees tangles of rope crowned with plastic bottles, washes of orange Polypheme net. As they clamber down on the shore, their shoes rubbing over shingle, she picks out seals’ vertebra, the bleached starkness of whale bone, a necklace of dry seaweed.

The sea air is sharp and sweet on her face, the wind blowing out a blustering of rain.

She exhales slowly, watching Ramona untangle little Patrick from her arms and letting him clamber the last few rocks down onto the softer sand.

Out in the inky darkness of the horizon she can just make out the distant rolls and peaks of coastline rising and falling as it sprawls out towards the west.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

Teresa is at her shoulder, hugging herself into her coat, her nose tucked into her collar.

Her eyes are shining in the fading light, soft brown tendrils of hair caught with sparks of sunset framing her face.

Ben and Antonia’s shadows are just visible as they scout the dunes for firewood, a gale of laughter whispering back on the wind.

Sheltered under a dune, Richard and Harper set up the fire, laying out picnic blankets, finding rocks, a length of driftwood and an old blue fishing box for seats.

Little Patrick’s shrieks of laughter carry back from the shoreline, a tiny shadow clinging to Ramona’s guiding hands as they splash into the shallows.

‘Yes,’ Miranda replies, the word simple against her tongue, her mouth filled with salt-sharp sweetness. ‘It is. It’s beautiful.’

She’s about to say more when Ben appears at her shoulder. His hair is wild in the wind, his mouth filled with smiles.

The hand that takes her own is light, fingers running against her palm, pressing deep over her skin.

Behind him, she sees the first licks of flame leaping from the fire, Richard’s shadowed face half lit as he watches it burn.

‘Come on.’

Ben’s voice is soft in her ear and Miranda can’t help but smile as she accepts his hand, watching Teresa’s face soften as she watches them.

The tussock grass sags against their shoes as they climb the dune, Miranda’s fingers brushing against wind-bent flower-heads.

When she finds Richard’s botanical guide to plants back at Birchwood Cottage, their names will be a whispered lullaby against her lips, their lyrical alliteration dancing in her dreams.

Sea bindweed with its’ fuchsia pink flowers.

Lyme grass.

Sea sandwort.

Sand sedge.

She lets Ben lead her into a cleft between the higher dunes, the wind’s whistle rippling over their heads.

They tumble down together, their feet sliding, catching in the soft give of the sand, loosening old shafts of seaweed, disrupting showers of shingle.

His eyes are glimmering in the darkness, the last lights of the sun burning in his pupils.

He comes to her wordlessly, his hands soft and giving in the all-knowing dark.

Her mouth feels dry with an unknown desire, her lips aching for his and he gives them gladly, his hands slowly reaching into her hair. She feels the nip of a fingernail against her scalp, his fingers teasing her hair from the bun that she had tied with such numbness that morning.

His mouth is hot and dry and sweet all at once when she breathes in his scent. Loses herself in the dexterity of his artist hands, the hands that have swapped rifles for pencils, the hands that still harbour secrets which he cannot yet name.

‘Miranda.’

Her name is a husky breath in his mouth, his lips searching, finding, holding her own.

‘Oh, God, Miranda.’

She buries her head into his chest in answer, her hands spanning the width of his shoulder blades. Her lips are caught against his skin, her tongue grazing against sinew and tendon.

Around them the gulls continue to call, the waves slowly pulling back over the shingle, a babble of laughter pulled back on the wind. The sky is slowly darkening, a few stars pricking their light against the clouds.

With tangled limbs, they sink slowly towards the earth.

Somehow, they have shed their coats, now lying in a tangled heap amongst the flattened tussock grass.

His movements are slow, his fingers fumbling slightly against the buttons of her blouse and for a moment she wants to let him. Wants to forget the last time that a man had put taken his hands to her, had caught her top and fondled her breasts, his breath hot in her ear.

_This is different._

_This- This is Ben._

_He’d never- He would never-_

_But in some dark recess of her mind, his hands are her Grandfather’s hands, his breath her Grandfather’s breath deep in the shadows of the kitchen, the darkness suddenly stifling, and she can’t breathe-_

‘No. Benito. Please, please don’t-‘

The words are bitten against her tongue, caught between her teeth.

Instinctively, her hand reaches to push his away, squeezing his fingers until she hears a sharp intake of breath.

‘What- What is it?’

In the shadowed darkness she cannot see the way that realisation crashes against his face like a wave tumbling over the shoreline.

Can only feel his hands wrench themselves out of hers, his breathing suddenly sharp.

‘God- Miranda- I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, _mi querida._ I didn’t- I didn’t think-‘

His voice breaks on the words and she shakes her head mutely, realising too late that he cannot see her.

She feels him draw his hands away until they are quite apart, staring at each other through the darkness.

‘I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.’

The words are spoken to her knees as Miranda pulls them up under her chin, hugging herself.

She feels rather than sees his nod.

_All right._

_It’s all right._

_I understand._

Feels the warmth of his weight tentatively return, his hand resting lightly against her knee, the press of a long, lean body against her own.

‘Lo siento,’ she whispers, the words broken in the quiet.

‘No. Fue mi culpa. No te arrepientas nunca,’ he replies just as softly and her heart breaks at the sound of her childhood language sweet on his tongue.

He pulls his other arm around her shoulder and she leans into his touch, the jut of his chin nestled deep in her hair.

Wrapped in a bed of coats and tussock grass, she watches the last vestiges of light play against the inky line of the horizon, the flames from the bonfire licking the sky.

Watches Richard and Teresa’s shadows draw closer over the fire, sees Antonia stand to wave to them, her hair glowing fire-bright in the flames.

Sees Harper take little Patrick from Ramona’s arms, a whispered conversation that she can’t hear passing between them.

‘We should join them,’ she murmurs.

‘Only if you want to be pulled into any ridiculous last-minute job that Dad and Harper can dream up,’ Ben replies drily. ‘Stay here a little longer, love. They’ll call us when they’re ready.’

* * *

The fire is burning down to its’ embers and the grill assembled by the time they clamber out of their dune and join the rest of the party.

‘Come to join us, you two?’

Richard grins from over the fire, his face shadowed against the flames as they slip onto the one of the bleached pieces of driftwood that Harper has found for a seat.

Miranda pushes close to Ramona, leaning over her shoulder to see little Patrick fast asleep in her lap.

‘He wouldn’t go back to the car, but he’s exhausted. Pobre cosita,’ Ramona murmurs over the sleeping head, her face soft with smiles.

Miranda nods, glancing up as Harper comes to join them, squatting on his haunches and resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his lips pressing deep into her curls.

His smile to Miranda is softly tender, making her think of the quiet congratulations underneath the birch trees in the Cathedral grounds once Ben and Antonia had been pulled away.

‘How’s the little one?’

Ramona’s smile is soft as she looks down at their sleeping son and back up into her husband’s face.

‘Exhausted. It’s been too exciting for him today, I think.’

A smile quivers against Harper’s lips as he reaches over to ruffle the crop of dark curls, a finger lingering over the line of his son’s cheek.

Watching him, Miranda remembers Juan as a baby.

_Remembers how his barely-there baby eyes had slowly darkened into the colour of river pebbles, sharply watching everything under a water slick of dark hair._

_Remembers her Father holding him in the kitchen when her Mother had been allowed home from the hospital with an almost reverent sense of wonder._

_Remembers how his arms had trembled as he had taken in the squalling bundle that had been Juan, eyes glistening with unshed tears._

_Remembers watching them kicking a ball together in the garden when Juan was older, their Father cheering as Juan scored goal after goal._

_Remembers Juan’s sharp eyes, noticing everything around him with a softly questioning gaze that was only for their Father._

_Even at the age of six, Juan had been the only one who was able to cool their Father and Grandfather’s rages with laconically, smooth smiles. The only one out of all of them who spoke with his head before his heart, listening until he could swerve the conversation back onto safer ground._

_He’d just had his sixth birthday when she’d left, too young to really understand why she had been forced to leave._

With a pang that feels like homesickness, she hopes that her little brother is safe and loved, wherever he is.

Wordlessly she reaches for Ben and he draws her closer as she tucks her head into his chest, the rise of chest a comfort against the pull of the waves on the shore.

‘I can take him back to the car if you like, Ramona?’

Little Patrick blinks at Harper’s question, slowly uncurling himself out of Ramona’s lap.

Miranda cannot help but smile at the sight of his little hand reaching blearily for his Father, eyes widening at the sight of the fire.

‘Da-‘

‘Come back to the land of the living, have ye ceann beag?’

Harper chuckles, taking the searching hand and giving it a soft squeeze.

Ramona nods, sitting back as she admires her boys. 

‘Right my lad, it’s time for your bedtime I think. D’ye want to be a big boy and walk or shall you be carried?’

A stubborn shake of the feather-dark head at the idea of being carried earns a collective chuckle as Harper nods gravely before turning to the others, his face cast in shadows from the flames.

Richard looks up from the grill and Teresa pauses turning over the red pepper halves that are about to burn to listen, Antonia pausing midway through pouring another drink.

Miranda feels the warm weight of Ben’s arm slip around her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.

‘I have been selected to accompany the young and _very_ gallant little Patrick on a quest to the car.’

Harper’s voice startles a late flock of sand pipers in a flurry of shadowed wings. The birds weave in and out and around each other, their calls stark against the sounds of the sea.

‘We can save a sausage for you if you’d like, Patrick?’

The question is soft from Teresa and little Patrick nods excitedly, all appearances of exhaustion suddenly vanishing as he tugs at his Father’s hand. 

Miranda watches them go, leaning back against Ben’s chest.

‘You all right?’

Ben’s voice is a murmur, his nose buried in her shoulder and she nods; sipping her drink.

‘Are you?’

His reply is caught in the weight of his fingers losing themselves in her hair.

‘Never better.’

Overhead a cloud passes, the first glimmers of starlight just visible.

A hissing tail of sparking embers flies into the night as Richard shifts them with a stick, their brightness caught against a deeply indigo sky.

‘Almost there,’ she hears him say to no one in particular, shifting the charred red pepper halves to one side and flicking sausages into the centre of the flames.

With a murmur to her Father, Antonia finds plates and cutlery from one of the picnic bags nestled behind the fire, her hair a mane of burnished gold as it catches the flames.

Out in the open water the great breakers continue to barge down to them, their white horses just visible in the dark.

A guttering orange light winks and glimmers on the horizon, belonging, Miranda imagines, to a fishing boat, its’ hull sharp with salt and expectation as it rides out the night on the waves.

And then a crash of returning footsteps disturbs the quiet and Harper’s shadow shutters the fire, his feet falling over shell and stone and seaweed, rubbing his hands at the thought of food.

‘All tucked up and quiet,’ Miranda hears him murmur to Ramona in answer to an unasked question.

Ramona is about to reply when Richard’s exclamation that the food is ready cuts through the chatter.

Plates are passed over the glowing embers, drinks are refilled, and Miranda leans back against Ben’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.

The fingers of his free hand are sticky with grease as they tangle themselves in her hair, his breath smelling of salt and sausage and charcoal.

‘Are you happy, mi querida?’

The question is simple and sincere and for a moment she looks at him, his face caught against the firelight, contemplating her answer.

His eyes are shining, the shadows that have clung to them for so long slowly beginning to fade.

_There are ghosts there still, ghosts that she has not found a way to banish, but the time to face them will come._

Turning back to the firelight, she sighs, half listening to Richard telling a joke that she hadn’t heard the beginning of, catching a wink from Teresa.

Sees Antonia get up from her place and weave around the fire, her curls glowing in the firelight.

Feels the warm weight of the younger girl’s hand slipping into hers and squeezing lightly.

She smells of smoke and sea salt, her dimples creasing as she settles herself.

‘You OK, ‘randa? How does freedom feel?’

Miranda nods wordlessly, pulling herself away from Ben.

‘Good,’ she replies simply.

‘I’ll have to come and visit you now that I’ve got more time. You can give me that secret grand tour of London that you’ve been promising!’

Playfully, she jabs Antonia in the ribs, making her squeal and look appealing at Ben, who nods sagely in agreement, eyebrows quirked.

‘You did promise, ‘tonia,’ he murmurs, taking a swig of his beer.

The younger girl rolls her eyes in an expression that reminds Miranda acutely of Mathilde when she was turning thirteen and discovering the strange world of teenage rebellion.

‘But _I’ll_ have to come and visit you! Get away from London! See all of Ben’s artworks!’

‘The ones that I’ll _let_ you see, hermanita. You’re not going through my sketch books! Hey!’

Ben breaks off, dodging Antonia throwing something that Miranda can’t make out in the dark.

‘Ugh, _fine._ I’ll make sure that you two gets first dibs on visiting when I move into my new flat, after Mum and Dada.’

The exasperation in her voice makes Miranda chuckle.

‘Naturally,’ Ben replies with a sardonically charming smile.

‘Muchos gracias, querida,’ Miranda murmurs, pulling Antonia closer and tucking her chin into her shoulder, her other arm reaching for Ben.

He gives it gladly, pressing his nose into the pit of her shoulder blade; unseen kisses lost through the fabric of her coat.

She takes his face in her hands, her thumbs pressing against the rise of his cheekbones, stroking out the skin.

He reaches with his free hand to rest it against her own. Turns it up so that his thumb rests lightly over the pulse point on her wrist.

For a long moment, they stay there, listening to the rush of the waves on the shoreline, the steady thrum of their united pulse.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers finally.

The words sound impossibly loud in the quiet, dancing over the whistle of the Kelly Kettle, the hiss of flying sparks as Harper stokes the dying embers.

‘What for?’

Ben’s eyes are dancing as he accepts two steaming mugs from Teresa with a grin, passing one over.

The warmth of the tea seeps into Miranda’s palms, curling up around her fingers, diving deep into her thumbs.

‘For-‘

She pauses, running the words over in Spanish in her head and then back into English.

_Por creer en mi._

_Por darme una segunda oportunidad._

‘For believing in me,’ she says simply.

He chuckles softly at that, the sound rich and deep in the base of his throat.

‘I suppose I could say the same about you,’ he replies, appraising her with soft eyes. ‘I hope I haven’t given you cause to regret it, mi querida.’

She takes a sip of her tea and shakes her head, turning from the fire to look down the dark shore towards the sea.

The little fishing boat out on the horizon has vanished, but she can just imagine its’ light flickering in the darkness as it plunges and rises through the waves; a lifeline for battered souls.

Ben follows her gaze, his hand draped over her shoulder.

‘What’re you looking for?’

It is a smiling question that is soft in the quiet, whispered in a breath against her ear.

‘The fishing boat I saw earlier,’ she replies, still scanning the horizon. ‘I thought it might be giving a lifeline for anyone who’s out there.’

‘Probably,’ he reflects, gulping down the tea from his own mug.

She answers him with a kiss, laying her half-drunk mug aside and taking his face in her hands.

His lips are soft and giving, the skin over his cheekbones taut under her touch.

Her fingers lose themselves in his curls, as his lips reply, smiling behind the kiss.

‘Mi querido niño,’ she murmurs and he chuckles, the sound a breath against her mouth.

Around them the waves continue to break against the shoreline, the stars a glittering blanket against the sky and she realises that she’s home.

She’s home and home is here on this beach with the song of the sea in her ears, the rustle of the Lyme grass on the dunes.

Home is Richard, Teresa and Antonia with cream on the tip of her nose as they eat raspberries that were picked from the fruit cage that afternoon.

Home is Harper and Ramona toasting the night in Irish Gaelic and Spanish, their laughter ringing across the sand.

And home is Ben.

Home is her wounded boy who is trying so hard to mend himself.

Trying to knit together shattered memories and a fractured soul that is courageously shining despite everything the world has thrown at him.

Leaning into his weight, watching the moon slowly slip out from a cloud and bathe the sea in a shimmer of silver light, she realises that she does not want to ask for more.

* * *

**_Fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> Constructive criticism  
> "<3" as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> This author replies to comments
> 
> Note: If you don't want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example) feel free to sign your comment with 'whisper' and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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